Intellectually and morally this period of my life was rather stagnant5. I had been through a good deal of excitement, of mental and moral malady6, of general bouleversement. Nature exacted a certain amount of quiescence7, melancholy8 quiescence for the most part, because I felt myself singularly without energy to carry out my hopes and schemes, and at the same time it seemed that time was ebbing[77] away purposelessly, and that I was not driving, so to speak, any piles in the fluid and oozy9 substratum of ideas on which my life seemed built. To revel10 in metaphors11, I was like a snake which has with a great strain bolted a quadruped, and needs a long space of uneasy and difficult digestion12. But at the time I did not see this; I only thought I was losing time: I felt with Milton—
“How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year.”
But beset13 as I was by the sublime14 impatience15 of youth, I had not serenity16 enough to follow out the thoughts which Milton works out in the rest of the sonnet17.
Literary Work
At the same time, so far as literary work went, to which I felt greatly drawn18, I was not so impatient. I wrote a great deal for my private amusement, and to practise facility of expression, but with little idea of hurried publication. A story which I sent to a well-known editor was courteously19 returned to me, with a letter in which he stated that he had read my work carefully, and that he felt it a duty to tell me that it was “sauce without meat.” This kind and wholesome20 advice made a great[78] difference to me; I determined21 that I would attempt to live a little before I indulged in baseless generalisation, or lectured other people on the art of life. I soon gained great facility in writing, and developed a theory, which I have ever since had no reason to doubt, that performance is simply a matter of the intensity22 of desire. If one only wants enough to complete a definite piece of work, be it poem, essay, story, or some far more definite and prosaic23 task, I have found that it gets itself done in spite of the insistent24 pressure of other businesses and the deadening monotony of heavy routine, simply because one goes back to it with delight, schemes to clear time for it, waits for it round corners, and loses no time in spurring and whipping the mind to work, which is necessary in the case of less attractive tasks. The moment that there comes a leisurely25 gap, the mind closes on the beloved work like a limpet; when this happens day after day and week after week, the accumulations become prodigious26.
I thus felt gradually more and more, that when the magnum opus did present itself to be done, I should probably be able to carry it through; and meanwhile I had sufficient self-respect,[79] although I suffered twinges of thwarted27 ambition, not to force my crude theories, my scrambling28 prose, or my faltering29 verse upon the world.
London
Meanwhile I lived a lonely sort of life, with two or three close intimates. I never really cared for London, but it is at the same time idle to deny its fascination30. In the first place it is full from day to day of prodigious, astounding31, unexpected beauties—sometimes beauty on a noble scale, in the grand style, such as when the sunset shakes its hair among ragged32 clouds, and the endless leagues of house-roofs and the fronts of town palaces dwindle33 into a far-off steely horizon-line under the huge and wild expanse of sky. Sometimes it is the smaller, but no less alluring34 beauty of subtle atmospherical35 effects; and so conventional is the human appreciation36 of beauty that the constant presence, in these London pictures, of straight framing lines, contributed by house-front and street-end, is an aid to the imagination. Again, there is the beauty of contrasts; the vignettes afforded by the sudden blossoming of rustic37 flowers and shrubs38 in unexpected places; the rustle39 of green leaves at the end of a monotonous[80] street. And then, apart from natural beauty, there is the vast, absorbing, incredible pageant40 of humanity, full of pathos41, of wistfulness, and of sweetness. But of this I can say but little; for it always moved me, and moves me yet, with a sort of horror. I think it was always to me a spectacular interest; I never felt one with the human beings whom I watched, or even in the same boat, so to speak, with them; the contemplation of the fact that I am one of so many millions has been to me a humiliating rather than an inspiring thought; it dashes the pleasures of individuality; it arraigns42 the soul before a dark and inflexible43 bar. Passing daily through London, there is little possibility in the case of an imaginative man for hopeful expansion of the heart, little ground for anything but an acquiescent44 acceptance. Under these conditions it is too rudely brought home to me to be wholesome, how ineffective, undistinguished, typical, minute, uninteresting any one human being is after all: and though the sight of humanity in every form is attractive, bewildering, painfully interesting, thrilling, and astounding—though one finds unexpected beauty and goodness everywhere—yet I recognise that city life[81] had a deadening effect on my consciousness, and hindered rather than helped the development of thought and life.
The Artist
Still, in other ways this period was most valuable—it made me practical instead of fanciful; alert instead of dreamy; it made me feel what I had never known before, the necessity for grasping the exact point of a matter, and not losing oneself among side issues. It helped me out of the entirely45 amateurish46 condition of mind into which I had been drifting—and, moreover, it taught me one thing which I had never realised, a lesson for which I am profoundly grateful, namely that literature and art play a very small part in the lives of the majority of people; that most men have no sort of an idea that they are serious matters, but look upon them as more or less graceful47 amusements; that in such regions they have no power of criticism, and no judgment48; but that these are not nearly such serious defects as the defect of vision which the artist and the man of letters suffer from and encourage—the defect, I mean, of treating artistic49 ideals as matters of pre-eminent national, even of moral importance. They must be content to range themselves[82] frankly50 with other craftsmen51; they may sustain themselves by thinking that they may help, a very little, to ameliorate conditions, to elevate the tone of morality and thought, to provide sources of recreation, to strengthen the sense of beauty; but they must remember that they cannot hope to belong to the primal52 and elemental things of life. Not till the primal needs are satisfied does the work of the poet and artist begin—“After the banquet, the minstrel.”
The poet and the artist too often live, like the Lady of Shalott, weaving a magic web of fair and rich colour, but dealing53 not with life itself, and not even with life viewed ipsis oculis, but in the magic mirror. The Lady of Shalott is doubly secluded54 from the world; she does not mingle55 with it, she does not even see it; so the writer sometimes does not even see the life which he describes, but draws his knowledge secondhand, through books and bookish secluded talk. I do not think that I under-rate the artistic vocation56; but it is only one of many, and, though different in kind, certainly not superior to the vocations57 of those who do the practical work of the world.
From this dangerous heresy58 I was saved[83] just at the moment when it was waiting to seize upon me, and at a time when a man’s convictions are apt to settle themselves for life, by contact with the prosaic, straightforward59 and commonplace world.
At one time I saw a certain amount of society; my father’s old friends were very kind to me, and I was thus introduced to what is a far more interesting circle of society than the circle which would rank itself highest, and which spends an amount of serious toil60 in the search of amusement, with results which to an outsider appear to be unsatisfactory. The circle to which I gained admittance was the official set—men who had definite and interesting work in the world—barristers, government officials, politicians and the like, men versed61 in affairs, and with a hard and definite knowledge of what was really going on. Here I learnt how different is the actual movement of politics from the reflection of it which appears in the papers, which often definitely conceals62 the truth from the public.
Diversions
My amusements at this period were of the mildest character; I spent Sundays in the summer months at Golden End; Sundays in the winter as a rule at my lodgings63; and devoted[84] the afternoons on which I was free, to long aimless rambles64 in London, or even farther afield. I have an absurd pleasure in observing the details of domestic architecture; and there is a variety of entertainment to be derived65, for a person with this low and feeble taste, from the exploration of London, which would probably be inconceivable to persons of a more conscientious66 artistic standard.
A Rude Shock
At this period I had few intimates; and sociable67 as I had been at school and college, I was now thrown far more on my own resources; I sometimes think it was a wise and kindly68 preparation for what was coming; and I certainly learnt the pleasures to be derived from reading and lonely contemplation and solitary69 reflection, pleasures which have stood me in good stead in later days. I used indeed to think that the enforced spending of so many hours of the day with other human beings gave a peculiar70 zest71 to these solitary hours. Whether this was wholesome or natural I know not, but I certainly enjoyed it, and lived for several years a life of interior speculation72 which was neither sluggish73 nor morbid74. I learnt my business thoroughly75, and in all probability I should have settled[85] down quietly and comfortably to the life of a bachelor official, rotating from chambers76 to office and from office to club, had it not been that just at the moment when I was beginning to crystallise into sluggish, comfortable habits, I was flung by a rude shock into a very different kind of atmosphere.
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1 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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2 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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3 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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4 contingencies | |
n.偶然发生的事故,意外事故( contingency的名词复数 );以备万一 | |
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5 stagnant | |
adj.不流动的,停滞的,不景气的 | |
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6 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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7 quiescence | |
n.静止 | |
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8 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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9 oozy | |
adj.软泥的 | |
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10 revel | |
vi.狂欢作乐,陶醉;n.作乐,狂欢 | |
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11 metaphors | |
隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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12 digestion | |
n.消化,吸收 | |
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13 beset | |
v.镶嵌;困扰,包围 | |
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14 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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15 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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16 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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17 sonnet | |
n.十四行诗 | |
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18 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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19 courteously | |
adv.有礼貌地,亲切地 | |
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20 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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21 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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22 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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23 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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24 insistent | |
adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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25 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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26 prodigious | |
adj.惊人的,奇妙的;异常的;巨大的;庞大的 | |
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27 thwarted | |
阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 ); 使受挫折; 挫败; 横过 | |
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28 scrambling | |
v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 );攀登;争夺;(军事飞机)紧急起飞 | |
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29 faltering | |
犹豫的,支吾的,蹒跚的 | |
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30 fascination | |
n.令人着迷的事物,魅力,迷恋 | |
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31 astounding | |
adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊,使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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32 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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33 dwindle | |
v.逐渐变小(或减少) | |
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34 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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35 atmospherical | |
adj.空气的,气压的 | |
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36 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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37 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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38 shrubs | |
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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39 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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40 pageant | |
n.壮观的游行;露天历史剧 | |
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41 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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42 arraigns | |
v.告发( arraign的第三人称单数 );控告;传讯;指责 | |
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43 inflexible | |
adj.不可改变的,不受影响的,不屈服的 | |
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44 acquiescent | |
adj.默许的,默认的 | |
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45 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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46 amateurish | |
n.业余爱好的,不熟练的 | |
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47 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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48 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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49 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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50 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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51 craftsmen | |
n. 技工 | |
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52 primal | |
adj.原始的;最重要的 | |
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53 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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54 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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55 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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56 vocation | |
n.职业,行业 | |
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57 vocations | |
n.(认为特别适合自己的)职业( vocation的名词复数 );使命;神召;(认为某种工作或生活方式特别适合自己的)信心 | |
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58 heresy | |
n.异端邪说;异教 | |
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59 straightforward | |
adj.正直的,坦率的;易懂的,简单的 | |
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60 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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61 versed | |
adj. 精通,熟练 | |
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62 conceals | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63 lodgings | |
n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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64 rambles | |
(无目的地)漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 ); (喻)漫谈; 扯淡; 长篇大论 | |
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65 derived | |
vi.起源;由来;衍生;导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 );(从…中)得到获得;源于;(从…中)提取 | |
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66 conscientious | |
adj.审慎正直的,认真的,本着良心的 | |
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67 sociable | |
adj.好交际的,友好的,合群的 | |
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68 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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69 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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70 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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71 zest | |
n.乐趣;滋味,风味;兴趣 | |
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72 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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73 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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74 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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75 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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76 chambers | |
n.房间( chamber的名词复数 );(议会的)议院;卧室;会议厅 | |
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