she wrote post cards to ten people and I went out to mail them. The cards had been bought in various timeless lands. Palms, mosques1 and jungle. I walked down the Bowery trying to find a mailbox. I put my hands in my pockets and moved sideways into the wind, trying to slice through, to minimize.
(A corporation word but perfect for our time.) Maybe that was the answer I needed, the one route back. So simple. To decide to love the age. To stencil2 myself in its meager3 design, A mailbox was visible through snow flurries. It was pleasant to drop the little cards in, adding ten names to the great circulatory process of delay. Simple. I might yield to the seductions of void, taking a generation with me into blank climates, far beyond any place we'd been before, chancing endless pain to our children, misbirth and aphasia4, all asleep in drool. I had no idea how I might begin. It was important, I knew, never to fear the end of any line I might venture to trace. Important never to alter levels of purpose.
Never to satirize5 or pursue small ironies6 or curtsy to the one-handed clapping of the tasteful and humane7. I'd have to hand myself over to the structures that defined the time. Float on its clotted8 oil. Become obese9 with power and self-loathing. How else to remake myself, to pass the point I'd found, the proportion needed and feared, nothing to nothing. Opel waited in bed, tangled10 among the sheets, her body labyrinthine11 in shrouds12 and pockets of sloppy13 linen14. It was an evil thing to consider, allying myself with the barest parts of mass awareness15, land policed by the king's linguists17, by technicians in death-system control, corporate18 disease consultants19, profiteers of the fetus20 industry. I wondered whether I'd need a new following or whether the old would simply rearrange itself to accommodate my second coming. This was possibly the most interesting aspect of the problem. But either way I'd be the epoch's barren hero, a man who knew the surest way to minimize.
"I hated to get rid of those cards," Opel said. "They were so beautifully ugly."
"What did they say?"
"They said it's your birthday in four days and would so-and-so come over for a little ether and muscatel."
"Thanks for letting me know."
"I thought you'd read them."
"I looked at the pictures."
"You see, I thought you'd read them and that your failure to comment was an indication of tacit approval. That's what I frankly21 and sincerely thought as a matter of fact. Anyway they'll be here in four days. It'll be the last party. Assuming everybody's still at the addresses the cards were mailed to."
"Nobody's coining here in four days," I said.
"Why not?"
"I didn't mail the cards."
"Lie," she said. "I caught you in a lie. You hadn't read the cards so there was no reason not to mail them."
"I lied when I said I hadn't read them. But I'm telling the truth now. I read them. But I didn't mail them."
"You're too messed up to read."
"Okay, it's true I hadn't read them. But I suspected what was written on them. So I didn't mail them."
"Not even remotely convincing."
"I gave them away. There was a beggar over near Stanton Street. I gave him the post cards to sell for black bread and soup. The beggar then revealed himself to be a sixteenth-century English saint. Nigel of Chelsea. He gave me his credit card to use for thirty days without fear of criminal prosecution22."
"I always know when you're lying regardless of what comes out of your mouth. You become very still. And your eyes get hard. You try to overpower the person you're lying to. When I lie I try to slip past like a little stream. But you, you're like Easter Island."
"Tell me who's showing up for the last party."
"Oh, everybody."
"Can you give me an example?"
"Oh, you know, everybody."
"Bright lights of the past. Is that it?"
"The neon creepies."
"Opel, shit."
"They're just folks, Bucky."
I slept with my head somewhere under her arm. When I woke up it was nearly dark. Opel never appeared peaceful in sleep. There were other times, certain expressions she made, when I could see exactly what she'd looked like at the age of ten; this funny child smiled out from the middle of her face. But in sleep she was faintly angry, twice her true age, laboring23 through dreams and panic, a menopausal line coursing down her jaw24. Sleep drained her of impulsiveness25 and failed to replace it with some approximation of its opposite, serenity26 or resignation. Opel did not rest easily. She was a bed-fighter, kicking, angling for position, making carnivorous noises. The trance was a kindlier state for her. In the past we'd cruised together into various distorted modes and she never failed to evolve security from a chemical's endless suburbs. She belonged dead center in that ferocious27 calm; it steadied her as sleep never could. I woke her up now and made love with whatever strength I could summon, whatever bruising28 resolution, a fresh edge to body and mind, drawn29 from that walk in the wind, power-resurgent-now, teased by the feeling I might soon return to the sound outside. Her body gave me back the heat of sleep, responding slowly, no longer greedy in its freedoms, a body rising like bread, her loins poised30, tongue at my ear, hand knuckling31 along my spine32, and it was art we sought to shape, a moral form to master commerce, the bodies we were and the danger we needed, that of dredging each other's insufficiencies, touring the deepest holes. We rode an odd moment now, laughter back and forth33, her eyes alert to love's delight, an instant only, then down to pelvic business, rack and pinion34, the poet's word dropping off the page. Through the day Opel remained in bed, resting up (she said) for her mercantile encounter. I dialed numbers on the dead phone.
"Why is ecology so boring to read about?" she said.
"For the same reason destruction is such fun."
"Old magazines are pretty. Don't you think?"
"Sure, why not."
"This one says Spain is a land of contrast. I'll have to go there soon."
"It may not be timeless enough for you."
"Right now I need contrast. The eye gets tired as hell seeing the same surroundings. That's the second and final justification35 for travel as a matter of fact. To keep the eye interested."
"What's the first?" I said.
"To become a thing. I told you that."
"But is there any land that isn't a land of contrast?"
"I don't know. But Spain makes an outright36 claim. If you went somewhere where they didn't make the claim, you'd be taking a big chance. You might get there and find no contrast at all. No, it's definitely Spain. I'm going to Spain."
"Spain," I said into the phone. "Get me the Spain the tourist never sees."
"When are you getting out of here, Bucky? Don't you want to make some sounds? You haven't written anything, you haven't played, you haven't even hummed. What the hell, man."
"What the hell, man."
"You should be playing."
"You should be dealing37," I said. "Where's your man? If your man doesn't show up, where are you then? You'll have to go back to Texas and manage your daddy's empire. You want to deal, that's dealing. Why'd you ever leave? Come up here in this freezing gray slush. Hang around in that little bed waiting for some long-time weird38 geek bureaucrat39 to drive up in his pimpmobile and knock on your door. It makes no sense."
"Could be you're right. But I know one thing. My eyes need contrast."
"Spain," I said into the phone.
Several days later people of various sorts appeared in the room. Some I knew; others were unknown to me. I sat in the bowl-shaped canvas chair. Opel led the celebrants around me. I nodded, blinked and occasionally touched another's jutting40 hand. I had little to say but was sure no one would mind. They already knew my voice. It was my presence they were eager to record, the simple picture of man-in-chair, a memory print to trade for other people's time. Slowly the room began to fill. It became obvious the original ten were intent on trebling. People spoke41 of where they lived, in what shamble of rooms or post-atomic street. Of their health, poor and poorer. Of bands of howling boys abroad in NoHo. Of distant spring on the banks of the East River, stoic42 picnickers watching bodies rise to the surface, braided in weed and pecked by idle fish. Someone mentioned the loft43 he'd just moved into, a large windy place, floors buckled44 and humped, no lights without a kite and key. Of teen-age wino communes. Tia Maria modeled (draped) for art students at Cooper Union. Chester Greenlee panhandled on Eighth Street, wearing a Mickey Mouse mask. Miss Mott lived alone on Mott Street, as in the past, called Miss Rivington, she'd lived on Rivington Street, and on Canal Street as Miss Canal. She was in her late sixties (it was speculated), a collector of Dad's Root Beer bottles and copies of the Wall Street Journal. 1 took a breath and then another. A man smoked a pipe, sitting with legs jauntily46 crossed, dressed in patched corduroy. The neon creepies chatted and wept, bad teeth, worse posture47.
"This is the last party."
"Look, I'm wearing my forty-dollar chinchilla Luv Glove. It's a gesture. We need gestures today. People's stomachs are shrinking with fear. We need to wear each other's underwear. I issue this edict. Wear each other's underwear. It's a gesture of faith in each other. It's the end of fear."
"Oh God my head. Oh my whole mind. My limbs and extremities48. Oh God my hair, my nails, my pores."
"I'm troubled by movie dreams. Glamorous49 faces appear and disappear. All the great names. I find it troubling for some reason. I wake up fearful and unsettled. The faces are sad. Maybe that's it. The sadness of great fame. The famous movie dead. Dead but not dead. That's why I'm unsettled maybe. Because they're unsettled. Dead but not really dead. Never really dead. The whole concept of movies is so fundamentally Egyptian. Movies are dreams. Pyramids. Great rivers of sleep. The great and the glamorous with their legendary51 sphinxlike profiles. I wake up trembling."
"This is the last party."
"I was all set to wear my sequined baby-doll nightie from Frederick's of Hollywood and come crashing out of a big freaky birthday cake. But I settled for the Luv Glove. Nobody makes gestures today. We're all scrunched52 up like piglets being born. Opel, mail me some underwear so I'll feel better. Yours and Bucky's. Lycra, mail Bucky your underwear, one or two things. It's a gesture of faith. People need each other. I issue this edict. A chain letter with underwear enclosed. Everybody who gets the letter mails one pair of underwear to the next name on the list. If nobody breaks the chain, we end up with sixty-four pairs of underwear each. Of and for the people. I'm pro-people. This is a people thing."
"Of course I act like a child. Of course I revert53. Of course I'm anal."
"Burnt skin, Opel, use mink54 oil soap. And your hair looks like an Arab's been chewing on it. Use a comb to style. Use a brush to condition. And rinse55 with Jell-O, sweetmeat."
I continued to breathe, never before conscious of the effort needed to generate this act. People passed supernaturally across the room, leaving contrails of smoke and scented56 ash. Others settled around me, moving their lips. All were breathing, sullenly57 pumping blood, embarked58 together on a perverse59 miracle. Our movable parts carried us past the edge of every deathly metaphysic. Our organs, lifted from our bodies, plucked out with silver pincers and left laboring on bright Tiffany trays, would comprise the finest exhibit of our ability to endure. Euphoric with morphine we'd be wheeled among them, noting proportions and contours, admiring the beauty of what we were. In death, our opened bellies60 dripping, we'd be placed in refrigerated elevators and sent soundlessly into the earth. Above, our organs would be tagged and stored. Or, if found defective61, fed to the poor.
"It's axiomatic62 that history is a record of events. But what of latent history? We all think we know what happened. But did it really happen? Or did something else happen? Or did nothing happen?"
The pipe-smoking man crossed and uncrossed his legs, a shade of vaudeville63 in the genealogy64 of his movements. He banged the pipe into an ashtray65, inspected the bowl, blew into the stem, inserted a grimy pipe cleaner. Around him people spaced from birth passed chocolate kisses hand to hand. The pipe-smoking man began to refill his pipe, treating the instrument with appropriate manly66 endearment67.
"I'm Morehouse Professor of Latent History at the Osmond Institute. But I don't occupy the Morehouse Chair. I occupy the Houseman Chair. This professorship deals with events that almost took place, events that definitely took place but remained unseen and unremarked on, like the action of bacteria or the rising and falling of mountain ranges, and events that probably took place but were definitely not chronicled. Potential events are often more important than real events. Real events that go unrecorded are often more important than recorded events, whether real or potential. At one time sixty per cent of the population of black Africa was white. We have tools and femurs. But we're not sure what happened to this blue-eyed race. Were they wiped out by wars and disease? Did they sail away in long wooden ships? We're still sifting68 materials at the Homer Richmond Blount Memorial Wing of the Institute and we hope to have some answers very soon. One of the major thrusts of latent history is to avoid a narrow purview69. We're presently assembling evidence about the French Revolution indicating that a dissident faction70 of the sans-culottes used to assemble secretly under cover of dark for the sole purpose of wearing culottes. They'd strut71 around all night in foppish72 knee breeches. An orgy of strutting73 and posturing74. At daybreak they'd get into tight-fitting pantaloons and go back to their revolutionary activities. History is never clean. In some cases less happened than we suspect. In other cases we merely suspect that less happened. It's axiomatic that people in the Middle Ages went to bed early. We're studying this to learn what effect it had on the Hundred Years' War dragging on for as long as it did. Latent history never tells us where we stand in the sweep of events but rather how we can get out of the way. I myself am currently doing a paper proving that the Reformation, as such, never took place. The Counter Reformation was a response to something that never happened, as such. The Nile once flowed into the Amazon. We have sediment75 to prove it. What dreams did it carry? How much of the blood and poetic76 impulse of all of us? These are among our central concerns at the Institute."
Lloyd Boyd stood in the doorway77, then spotted78 me and came over. Lloyd was an actor who'd recently served time on a charge of reckless endangerment. Since his release he'd been living in Grand Central Station, sleeping on benches or in the doorways79 of clam80 bars. He told me he tried to think of Grand Central Station as his apartment. One room but a nice size. High ceiling. Nice big window. Marble floor. Centrally located, always important for an actor making the rounds. A little bit noisy and could be more heat. But the high ceiling made up for everything.
"I got depressed81 so I took an antidepressant."
"As -who wouldn't?"
Lycra Spandex lived with her mother and sister in Lefrak City. I didn't know where Vegemato lived. Lynn Forney lived with Notorious Nora and the Seventh Fleet on Avenue B. Jerry Dane lived in an East German Vopo greatcoat. Tia Maria used to live in a city bus abandoned under the West Side Highway but truck drivers on their way to the meat terminals used to ram50 the bus for fun, sometimes stopping just long enough to rape45 Tia Maria, more or less, and finally she moved into a storefront church presided over by a man who wore spats82 and claimed to be a direct descendent83 of Mohammed. I closed my eyes a moment, aware of a woman's voice depositing names at my feet.
"Bucky, this is Zenko Alataki, who happens to be Axel Gregg the documentary film-maker's brother-in-law, and I'm Axel's sister Lillian, Zenko's wife, Lillian Alataki. My husband's just up from northwest Mexico to raise some money for the earthquake he's been working on down there. Just make sure you don't call it art. It's not art. It's back to before art. Fire-building and the fingering of testicles. The wonder of pre-information is that men perceived the earth and themselves actually in the process of changing. Zenko's been trying to create pressure along a fault with a series of very delicate TNT explosions. Just a few more in the right places and hell have his small quake. The greatest work of art ever achieved. Except don't call it art."
"Is this true?"
"Why not?" Zenko said. "The continents ride on plates. The crust shifts, which causes breaks or faults. The beauty of a man-made fracture is that you can photograph the adjacent surface. Place objects on the surface and take aerial photographs of the objects toppling. I call this a kinetic84 shiver. Objects toppling. Objects being swallowed up. If society wasn't so obsessed85 with false values, I would be permitted to use live animals in my shivers. Sheep, goats, some rabbits. Earthquake technology enables man to give back to the earth. Goats being swallowed up would make a perfect shiver. It's an act of sacrificial love. We give back. The earth takes and is greener. How much do you weigh?"
"Is this the first shiver you've worked on?"
"This is the world's first shiver," he said. "I'm being prudent86 but bold. Life-serving destruction is always bold. How much do you weigh? Have you noticed what a very emaciated87 group this is? It's as though you're all disappearing before my eyes."
Opel went to bed fairly early in the evening. People crawled over and around her, and a few of the more forlorn simply remained at her sides in little ribbons of woe88. Diane Bowie took a teddy bear with her into the bathroom. Voices seemed to burn slightly. People bit the tips off chocolate kisses, bad teeth, smudged fingers, horrible posture. Winona Barry said she'd advertised her sewing skills in a West Village newspaper. A man called, wanting a nun's habit and crotchless riding pants. They bargained in spare phrases. "Extra for perversion89." "Money no object." "Extra for satiny under-things." "Do a sensitive job." "Extra for the hole in the riding pants." "Ill send plenty more business your way." Miss Mott tried to dial the time on Opel's phone.
"My sister has a new fella," Lycra Spandex said. "He's a detective with the safe, loft and truck squad90. He took one look at me and nearly gagged. How do I tell a fella like that about the childhood I spent dreaming of lash91 curlers, mascara, highlighters and toners? Can I explain to a plainclothes man about gauzy blouses, long flared92 skirts, superbitchy underwear, chokers, earrings93, pins and clips? He's a plainclothes man. He wouldn't understand, would he? Do I dare tell him what it means to wear eye shadow and have skin that's rose-petal soft? All my life all I've ever wanted was to be two people. Marge and Gower Champion. Alternating day to day. Can I confide94 in this detective? Can I explain about the whole Fox Movietone era and those girls in tutus jumping over the sawhorses? This detective spent his entire adolescence95 hitting other kids with bicycle chains. I'm supposed to tell him about my sheer pantyhose that do away with crotch sag96? Sorry but I won't play that game. I know what's best for Lycra Spandex. Lycra Spandex does not have to kowtow to authority figures, even when they're with the police department of the city of New York, even when they're with the safe, loft and truck squad. If the son of a bitch is so great, why doesn't he get me a decent loft to live in, or a safe where I can keep my crappy jewelry97, or a fucking truck that I can drive over a cliff?"
A tall pale girl stood near my chair. Her red hair was in pigtails and she wore paint-streaked jeans and a T-shirt with a hole in the middle. I leaned over and touched her arm. Therefore I am. She turned and I put my mouth to her navel. This made her laugh and twist a bit. Softly her thumbs browsed98 about my ears. Her navel was lint-free, abnormally large, an inner moon of convolutions and repose99. There was no reason to wonder who she was or how that level moment was rounded by her hands.
"Name's James," someone said. "Heard and enjoyed your stuff. Third album's a landmark100 work. Stunning101 album. Noise and screaming and babble-babble. Heard all your albums and all your singles and liked them all and that comes from someone who's kind of famous in his own right except nobody knows it. Mylon and I. I'm a friend of Mylon's. We live in the same piss-hole building. I gather you're laying back. Understandable. There's nothing to paint and nothing to write and nothing to film and nothing to sing about and nothing to make love to. But your sound comes out of the radio all the time. Stunning sound. Amazing when you think about it how your sound is big even out there in the sticks and boondocks where I come from originally, the absolute sticks, the deep boonies, where it's unlike a big city where people can absorb that kind of sound. Your second LP is killer102 too but I think number three's the landmark work."
Mylon Ware16 stood in a corner talking to no one. He was a folk singer from western Canada, a lean bleak103 man with strange eyes. His second winter in New York he killed and ate his dog to keep from starving. People had offered him food and urged him to go on welfare but he took nothing, listened to no one, said not a word. The dog was a German shepherd, bought for protection, and very hard to kill. Mylon began by using the long bar that was part of his police lock. The first blow wasn't severe or direct enough and the bar proved too long a weapon for the kind of struggle that followed. However it was useful for holding off the dog while Mylon maneuvered104 with his hunting knife, also bought for protection. It took him fifteen minutes to kill the animal. When it was over, almost nothing in the small apartment stood in the same place or was free of blood. Mylon cut the dog up and over a period of four days cooked and ate whatever seemed edible105.
"This is the last party."
"The first act is better in the New York production. The second act is better in the London production."
"Kiss."
"This is my vision. Everybody in the whole world wearing each other's underwear. Whole nations exchanging underwear. China doing Egypt's laundry. Big strong Turks wearing panties from Scarsdale. A people thing. I'm pro-people all the way. It would help us so much. I see it in my mind's eye. Special fourth-class rates for underwear. Cargo106 ships full of underwear plying107 the trade routes. This is my vision. Underwear chain letters. World peace through underwear."
"I admit I whimper. I admit I'm fantastically infantile most of the time. I admit I want to sit on the floor and say ma-ma, da-da, na-na."
"For a Filipino she's practically statuesque."
"Winona's little baby is the shittingest little baby you'll ever want to see. That little baby should have its own agent. That baby has a talent no other baby will ever come close to. I told Winona get on the phone to William Morris. That little baby should have an agent."
"This is the last party. Pass it on."
"I'll tell you how I'm shooting this picture. I'm shooting it beautifully. That's how I'm shooting it."
"This is the last party."
"I'm selling comic books on Fourth Avenue. It's a living, right? Kids come in. College boys with the hair, the clothes, the skin. I sell them old comics. I sell them glossies108 of Bonita Granville and King Kong. They don't call it a living for nothing. It's a living. I live. There's worse could happen. I at least live. It's a living. I make a living."
"This is the last party. Pass it on."
"The Self is inside the Other. Motion is the guiding mind of the solar community."
"Happy Valley's into violence now."
"Kiss."
I thought of all the inner organs in the room, considered apart from the people they belonged to. For that moment of thought we seemed a convocation of martyrs109, visible behind our skin. The room was a cell in a mystical painting, full of divine kidneys, lungs aloft in smoke, entrails gleaming, bladders simmering in painless fire. This was a madman's truth, to paint us as sacs and flaming lariats, nearly godly in our light, perishable110 but never ending. I watched the pale girl touch her voluptuous111 navel. One by one, repacked in sallow cases, we all resumed our breathing.
收听单词发音 |
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mosques
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| 清真寺； 伊斯兰教寺院，清真寺； 清真寺，伊斯兰教寺院( mosque的名词复数 ) | |
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stencil
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| v.用模版印刷；n.模版；复写纸，蜡纸 | |
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meager
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| adj.缺乏的，不足的，瘦的 | |
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aphasia
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| n.失语症 | |
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satirize
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| v.讽刺 | |
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ironies
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| n.反语( irony的名词复数 )；冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事；嘲弄 | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obese
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| adj.过度肥胖的，肥大的 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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labyrinthine
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| adj.如迷宫的；复杂的 | |
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shrouds
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| n.裹尸布( shroud的名词复数 )；寿衣；遮蔽物；覆盖物v.隐瞒( shroud的第三人称单数 )；保密 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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awareness
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| n.意识，觉悟，懂事，明智 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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linguists
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| n.通晓数国语言的人( linguist的名词复数 )；语言学家 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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consultants
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| 顾问( consultant的名词复数 )； 高级顾问医生，会诊医生 | |
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fetus
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| n.胎，胎儿 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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jaw
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impulsiveness
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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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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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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knuckling
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| n.突球v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的现在分词 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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33
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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34
pinion
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| v.束缚；n.小齿轮 | |
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35
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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36
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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37
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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38
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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39
bureaucrat
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| n. 官僚作风的人，官僚，官僚政治论者 | |
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40
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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41
spoke
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| 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 | |
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42
stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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43
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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44
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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45
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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46
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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47
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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48
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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49
glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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50
ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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51
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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52
scrunched
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| v.发出喀嚓声( scrunch的过去式和过去分词 )；蜷缩；压；挤压 | |
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53
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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54
mink
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| n.貂，貂皮 | |
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55
rinse
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| v.用清水漂洗，用清水冲洗 | |
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56
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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57
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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58
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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59
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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60
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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61
defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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62
axiomatic
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| adj.不需证明的，不言自明的 | |
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63
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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64
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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65
ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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66
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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67
endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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68
sifting
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| n.筛，过滤v.筛( sift的现在分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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69
purview
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| n.范围；眼界 | |
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70
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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71
strut
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| v.肿胀，鼓起；大摇大摆地走；炫耀；支撑；撑开；n.高视阔步；支柱，撑杆 | |
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72
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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73
strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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74
posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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75
sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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76
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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77
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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78
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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79
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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80
clam
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| n.蛤，蛤肉 | |
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81
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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82
spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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83
descendent
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| adj. 下降的, 降落的, 世袭的 n. 后代，子孙 =descendant | |
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84
kinetic
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| adj.运动的；动力学的 | |
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85
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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86
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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87
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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88
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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89
perversion
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| n.曲解；堕落；反常 | |
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90
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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91
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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92
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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94
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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95
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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96
sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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97
jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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98
browsed
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| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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99
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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100
landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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101
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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102
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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103
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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104
maneuvered
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵 | |
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105
edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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106
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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107
plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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108
glossies
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| 用亮光纸印刷的杂志( glossy的名词复数 ) | |
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109
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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110
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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111
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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