He had been hoping there would be a woman in the painting classes in whom he might take an interest — that was half the reason for giving them. But pairing up with one of the widows his age toward whom he felt no attraction proved to be beyond him, though the robustly1 healthy young women he saw jogging along the boardwalk when he took his morning walk, still all curves and gleaming hair and, to his eyes, seemingly more beautiful than their counterparts of an earlier era had ever been, were not sufficiently2 lacking in common sense to exchange with him anything other than a professionally innocent smile. Following their speedy progress with his gaze was a pleasure, but a difficult pleasure, and at bottom the mental caress3 was a source of biting sadness that only intensified4 an unbearable5 loneliness. True, he had chosen to live alone, but not unbearably6 alone. The worst of being unbearably alone was that you had to bear it — either that or you were sunk. You had to work hard to prevent your mind from sabotaging7 you by its looking hungrily back at the superabundant past.
And he'd become bored with his painting. For many years he'd dreamed of the uninterrupted span of time that his retirement8 would afford him to paint — as had thousands and thousands of other art directors who'd also earned their livelihood9 working in ad agencies. But after painting almost every day since moving to the shore, he had run out of interest in what he was doing. The urgent demand to paint had lifted, the enterprise designed to fill the rest of his life fizzled out. He had no more ideas. Every picture he worked on came out looking like the last one. His brightly colored abstractions had always been prominently displayed in the Starfish Beach show of local artists, and of the three that were taken by a gallery in the nearby seaside tourist town, all had been sold to the gallery's best customers. But that was nearly two years ago. Now he had nothing to show. It had all come to nothing. As a painter he was and probably always had been no more than the "happy cobbler" he happened to know he'd been dubbed10 by the satirical son. It was as though painting had been an exorcism. But designed to expel what malignancy? The oldest of his self-delusions? Or had he run to painting to attempt to deliver himself from the knowledge that you are born to live and you die instead? Suddenly he was lost in nothing, in the sound of the two syllables11 "nothing" no less than in the nothingness, lost and drifting, and the dread12 began to seep13 in. Nothing comes without risk, he thought, nothing, nothing — there's nothing that doesn't backfire, not even painting stupid pictures!
1 robustly | |
adv.要用体力地,粗鲁地 | |
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2 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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3 caress | |
vt./n.爱抚,抚摸 | |
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4 intensified | |
v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5 unbearable | |
adj.不能容忍的;忍受不住的 | |
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6 unbearably | |
adv.不能忍受地,无法容忍地;慌 | |
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7 sabotaging | |
阴谋破坏(某事物)( sabotage的现在分词 ) | |
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8 retirement | |
n.退休,退职 | |
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9 livelihood | |
n.生计,谋生之道 | |
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10 dubbed | |
v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 );把…称为;配音;复制 | |
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11 syllables | |
n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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12 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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13 seep | |
v.渗出,渗漏;n.渗漏,小泉,水(油)坑 | |
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