The eye closed briefly2. A Dutch drudgery3, it occurred to Sammler, pumping and pumping to keep a few acres of dry ground. The invading sea being a metaphor4 for the multiplication5 of facts and sensations. The earth being an earth of ideas.
He thought, since he had no job to wake up to, that he might give sleep a second chance to resolve certain difficulties imaginatively for himself, and pulled up the disconnected electric blanket with its internal sinews and lumps. The satin binding6 was nice to the finger tips. He was still drowsy7, but not really inclined to sleep. Time to be conscious.
He sat and plugged in the electric coil. Water had been prepared at bedtime. He liked to watch the changes of the ashen8 wires. They came to life with fury, throwing tiny sparks and sinking into red rigidity10 under the Pyrex laboratory flask12. Deeper. Blenching13. He had only one good eye. The left distinguished14 only light and shade. But the good eye was dark-bright, full of observation through the overhanging hairs of the brow as in some breeds of dog. For his height he had a small face. The combination made him conspicuous15.
His conspicuousness16 was on his mind; it worried him. For several days, Mr. Sammler returning on the customary bus late afternoons from the Forty-second Street Library had been watching a pickpocket17 at work. The man got on at Columbus Circle. The job, the crime, was done by Seventy-second Street. Mr. Sammler if he had not been a tall straphanger would not with his one good eye have seen these things happening. But now he wondered whether he had not drawn19 too close, whether he had also been seen seeing. He wore smoked glasses, at all times protecting his vision, but he couldn't be taken for a blind man. He didn't have the white cane20, only a furled umbrella, British-style. Moreover, he didn't have the look of blindness. The pickpocket himself wore dark shades. He was a powerful Negro in a camel's-hair coat, dressed with extraordinary elegance21, as if by Mr. Fish of the West End, or Turnbull and Asser of Jermyn Street. (Mr. Sammler knew his London.) The Negro's perfect circles of gentian violet banded with lovely gold turned toward Sammler, but the face showed the effrontery22 of a big animal. Sammler was not timid, but he had had as much trouble in life as he wanted. A good deal of this, waiting for assimilation, would never be accommodated. He suspected the criminal was aware that a tall old white man (passing as blind?) had observed, had seen the minutest details of his crimes. Staring down. As if watching open-heart surgery. And though he dissembled, deciding not to turn aside when the thief looked at him, his elderly, his compact, civilized23 face colored strongly, the short hairs bristled24, the lips and gums were stinging. He felt a constriction25, a clutch of sickness at the base of the skull26 where the nerves, muscles, blood vessels27 were tightly interlaced. The breath of wartime Poland passing over the damaged tissues—that nerve-spaghetti, as he thought of it.
Buses were bearable, subways were killing28. Must he give up the bus? He had not minded his own business as a man of seventy in New York should do. It was always Mr. Sammler's problem that he didn't know his proper age, didn't appreciate his situation, unprotected here by position, by privileges of remoteness made possible by an income of fifty thousand in New York—club membership, taxis, doormen, guarded approaches. For him it was the buses, or the grinding subway, lunch at the automat. No cause for grave complaint, but his years as an “Englishman," two decades in London as correspondent for Warsaw papers and journals, had left him with attitudes not especially useful to a refugee in Manhattan. He had developed expressions suited to an Oxford30 common room; he had the face of a British Museum reader. Sammler as a schoolboy in Cracow before World War I fell in love with England. Most of that nonsense had been knocked out of him. He had reconsidered the whole question of Anglophilia, thinking skeptically about Salvador de Madariaga, Marco Praz, André Maurois and Colonel Bramble . He knew the phenomenon. Still, confronted by the elegant brute32 in the bus he had seen picking a purse—the purse still hung open—he adopted an English tone. A dry, a neat, a prim33 face declared that one had not crossed anyone's boundary; one was satisfied with one's own business. But under the high armpits Mr. Sammler was intensely hot, wet; hanging on his strap18, sealed in by bodies, receiving their weight and laying his own on them as the fat tires took the giant curve at Seventy-second Street with a growl34 of flabby power.
He didn't in fact appear to know his age, or at what point of life he stood. You could see that in his way of walking. On the streets, he was tense, quick, erratically35 light and reckless, the elderly hair stirring on the back of his head. Crossing, he lifted the rolled umbrella high and pointed36 to show cars, buses, speeding trucks, and cabs bearing down on him the way he intended to go. They might run him over, but he could not help his style of striding blind.
With the pickpocket we were in an adjoining region of recklessness. He knew the man was working the Riverside bus. He had seen him picking purses, and he had reported it to the police. The police were not greatly interested in the report. It had made Sammler feel like a fool to go immediately to a phone booth on Riverside Drive. Of course the phone was smashed. Most outdoor telephones were smashed, crippled. They were urinals, also. New York was getting worse than Naples or Salonika. It was like an Asian, an African town, from this standpoint. The opulent sections of the city were not immune. You opened a jeweled door into degradation39, from hypercivilized Byzantine luxury straight into the state of nature, the barbarous world of color erupting from beneath. It might well be barbarous on either side of the jeweled door. Sexually, for example. The thing evidently, as Mr. Sammler was beginning to grasp, consisted in obtaining the privileges, and the free ways of barbarism, under the protection of civilized order, property rights, refined technological40 organization, and so on. Yes, that must be it.
Mr. Sammler ground his coffee in a square box, cranking counterclockwise between long knees. To commonplace actions he brought a special pedantic41 awkwardness. In Poland, France, England, students, young gentlemen of his time, had been unacquainted with kitchens. Now he did things that cooks and maids had once done. He did them with a certain priestly stiffness. Acknowledgment of social descent. Historical ruin. Transformation42 of society. It was beyond personal humbling43. He had gotten over those ideas during the war in Poland—utterly gotten over all that, especially the idiotic44 pain of losing class privileges . As well as he could with one eye, he darned his own socks, sewed his buttons, scrubbed his own sink, winter-treated his woolens45 in the spring with a spray can. Of course there were ladies, his daughter, Shula, his niece (by marriage), Margotte Arkin, in whose apartment he lived. They did for him, when they thought of it. Sometimes they did a great deal, but not dependably, routinely. The routines he did himself. It was conceivably even part of his youthfulness—youthfulness sustained with certain tremors46. Sammler knew these tremors. It was amusing—Sammler noted48 in old women wearing textured49 tights, in old sexual men, this quiver of vivacity50 with which they obeyed the sovereign youth-style. The powers are the powers .-overlords, kings, gods. And of course no one knew when to quit. No one made sober decent terms with death.
The grounds in the little drawer of the mill he held above the flask. The red coil went deeper, whiter, white. The kinks had tantrums. Beads51 of water flashed up. Individually, the pioneers gracefully53 went to the surface. Then they all seethed54 together. He poured in the grounds. in his cup, a lump ..." they all seethed together. He poured in the grounds. in his cup, a lump of sugar, a dusty spoonful of Pream. In the night table he kept a bag of onion rolls from Zabar's. They were in plastic, a transparent55 uterine bag fastened with a white plastic clip. The night table, copper56- lined, formerly57 a humidor, kept things fresh. It had belonged to Margotte's husband, Ussher Arkin. Arkin, killed three years ago in a plane crash, a good man, was missed, was regretted, mourned by Sammler. When he was invited by the widow to occupy a bedroom in the large apartment on West Ninetieth Street, Sammler asked to have Arkin's humidor in his room. Sentimental58 herself, Margotte said, "Of course, Uncle. What a nice thought. You did love Ussher." Margotte was German, romantic. Sammler was something else. He was not even her uncle. She was the niece of his wife, who had died in Poland in 1940. His late wife. The widow's late aunt. Wherever you looked, or tried to look, there were the late. It took some getting used to.
Grapefruit juice he drank from a can with two triangular59 punctures60 kept on the window sill. The curtain parted as he reached and he looked out. Brownstones, balustrades, bay windows, wrought61 iron. Like stamps in an album—the dun rose of buildings canceled by the heavy black of grilles, of corrugated62 rainspouts. How very heavy human life was here, in forms of bourgeois63 solidity. Attempted permanence was sad. We were now flying to the moon. Did one have a right to private expectations, being like those bubbles in the flask? But then also people exaggerated the tragic64 accents of their condition. They stressed too hard the disintegrated65 assurances; what formerly was believed, trusted, was now bitterly circled in black irony66. The rejected bourgeois black of stability thus translated. That too was improper67, incorrect. People justifying68 idleness, silliness, shallowness, distemper, lust—turning former respectability inside out.
Such was Sammler's eastward69 view, a soft asphalt belly70 rising, in which lay steaming sewer71 navels. Spalled sidewalks with clusters of ash cans. Brownstones. The yellow brick of elevator buildings like his own. Little copses of television antennas72. Whiplike, graceful52 thrilling metal dendrites drawing images from the air, bringing brotherhood73, communion to immured74 apartment people. Westward75 the Hudson came between Sammler and the great Spry Industries of New Jersey76. These flashed their electric message through intervening night. SPRY. But then he was half blind.
In the bus he had been seeing well enough. He saw a crime committed. He reported it to the cops. They were not greatly shaken. He might then have stayed away from that particular bus, but instead he tried hard to repeat the experience. He went to Columbus Circle and hung about until he saw his man again. Four fascinating times he had watched the thing done, the crime, the first afternoon staring down at the masculine hand that came from behind lifting the clasp and tipping the pocketbook lightly to make it fall open. Sammler saw a polished Negro forefinger77 without haste, with no criminal tremor47, turning aside a plastic folder78 with Social Security or credit cards, emery sticks, a lipstick79 capsule, coral paper tissues, nipping open the catch of a change purse—and there lay the green of money. Still at the same rate, the fingers took out the dollars. Then with the touch of a doctor on a patient's belly the Negro moved back the slope leather, turned the gilded80 scallop catch. Sammler, feeling his head small, shrunk with strain, the teeth tensed, still was looking at the patent leather bag riding, picked, on the woman's hip29, finding that he was irritated with her. That she felt nothing. What an idiot) Going around with some kind of stupid mold in her skull. Zero instincts, no grasp of New York. While the man turned from her, broad-shouldered in the carvers-hair coat. The dark glasses, the original design by Christian81 Dior, a powerful throat banded by a tab collar and a cherry silk necktie spouting82 out. Under the African nose, a cropped mustache. Ever so slightly inclining toward him, Sammler believed he could smell French perfume from the breast of the camel’s-hair coat. Had the man noticed him then? Had he perhaps followed him home? Of this Sammler was not sure.
He didn't give a damn for the glamour84, the style, the art of criminals. They were no social heroes to him. He had had some talks on this very matter with one of his younger relations, Angela Gruner, the daughter of Dr. Arnold Gruner in New Rochelle, who had brought him over to the States in 1947, digging him out of the DP camp in Salzburg. Because Arnold (Elya) Gruner had Old World family feelings. And studying the lists of refugees in the Yiddish papers, he had found the names Artur and Shula Sammler. Angela, who was in Sammler's neighborhood several times a week because her psychiatrist85 was just around the corner, often stopped in for a visit. She was one of those handsome, passionate86, rich girls who were always an important social and human category. A bad education. In literature, mostly French. At Sarah Lawrence College. And Mr. Sammler had to try hard to remember the Balzac he had read in Cracow in 1913. Vautrin the escaped criminal . From the hulks. Trompe-la-mort. No, he didn't have much use for the romance of the outlaw87. Angela sent money to defense88 funds for black murderers and rapists. That was her business of course.
However, Mr. Sammler had to admit that once he had seen the pickpocket at work he wanted very much to see the thing again. He didn't know why. It was a powerful event, and illicitly—that is, against his own stable principles—he craved89 a repetition. One detail of old readings he recalled without effort the moment in Crime and Punishment at which Raskolnikov brought down the ax on the bare head of the old woman, her thin gray-streaked grease-smeared hair, the rat's-tall braid fastened by a broken horn comb on her neck. That is to say that horror, crime, murder, did vivify all the phenomena90, the most ordinary details of experience. In evil as in art there was illumination. It was, of course, like the tale by Charles Lamb, burning down a house to roast a pig. Was a general conflagration91 necessary? All you needed was a controlled fire in the right place. Still, to ask everyone to refrain from setting fires until the thing could be done in the right place, in a higher manner, was possibly too much. And while Sammler, getting off the bus, intended to phone the police, he nevertheless received from the crime the benefit of an enlarged vision. The air was brighter—late afternoon, daylight-saving time. The world, Riverside Drive, was wickedly lighted up. Wicked because the clear light made all objects so explicit92, and this explicitness93 taunted94 Mr. Minutely-Observant Artur Sammler. All metaphysicians please note. Here is how it is. You will never see more clearly. And what do you make of it? This phone booth has a metal floor; smooth-hinged the folding green doors, but the floor is smarting with dry urine, the plastic telephone instrument is smashed, and a stump95 is hanging at the end of the cord.
Not in three blocks did he find a phone he could safely put a dime96 into, and so he went home. In his lobby the building management had set up a television screen so that the doorman could watch for criminals. But the doorman was always off somewhere. The buzzing rectangle of electronic radiance was vacant. Underfoot was the respectable carpet, brown as gravy97. The inner gate of the elevator, supple98 brass99 diamonds folding, grimy and gleaming. Sammler went into the apartment and sat on the sofa in the foyer, which Margotte had covered with large squares of Woolworth bandannas100, tied at the corners and pinned to the old cushions. He dialed the police and said, "I want to report a crime."
"What kind of crime?"
"A pickpocket."
"Just a minute, I’ll connect you."
There was a long buzz. A voice toneless with indifference101 or fatigue102 said, "Yes."
Mr. Sammler in his foreign Polish Oxonian English tried to be as compressed, direct, and factual as possible. To save time. To avoid complicated interrogation, needless detail.
"I wish to report a pickpocket on the Riverside bus."
"Sir?"
"O.K. I said O.K., report.”
"A Negro, about six feet tall, about two hundred pounds, about thirty-five years old, very good-looking, very well dressed."
"O.K."
"I thought I should call in."
"O.K."
"Are you going to do anything?"
"We’re supposed to, aren't we? What's your name?"
"Artur Sammler."
"All right, Art. Where do you live?"
"Dear sir, I will tell you, but I am asking what you intend to do about this man."
"What do you think we should do?"
"Arrest him."
"We have to catch him first."
"You should put a man on the bus."
"We haven't got a man to put on the bus. There are lots of buses, Art, and not enough men. Lots of conventions, banquets, and so on we have to cover, Art. VIPs and Brass. There are lots of ladies shopping at Lord and Taylor, Bonwit's, and Saks', leaving purses on chairs while they go to feel the goods." "I understand. You don't have the personnel, and there are priorities, political pressures. But I could point out the man."
"Some other time."
"You don't want him pointed out?"
"Sure, but we have a waiting list."
"I have to get on your list?"
"That's right, Abe."
"Artur."
"Arthur."
Tensely sitting forward in bright lamplight, Artur Sammler like a motorcyclist who has been struck in the forehead by a pebble103 from the road, trivially stung, smiled with long lips. America! (be was speaking to himself). Advertised throughout the universe as the most desirable, most exemplary of all nations.
"Let me make sure I understand you, officer—mister detective. This man is going to rob more people, but you aren't going to do anything about it. Is that right?"
It was right—confirmed by silence, though no ordinary silence. Mr. Sammler said, "Good-by, sir."
After this, when Sammler should have shunned104 the bus, be rode it oftener than ever. The thief had a regular route, and he dressed for the ride, for his work. Always gorgeously garbed105. Mr. Sammler was struck once, but not astonished, to see that he wore a single gold earring106. This was too much to keep to himself, and for the first time he then mentioned to Margotte, his niece and landlady107, to Shula, his daughter, that this handsome, this striking, arrogant108 pickpocket, this African prince or great black beast was seeking whom he might devour109 between Columbus Circle and Verdi Square.
To Margotte it was fascinating. Anything fascinating she was prepared to discuss all day, from every point of view with full German pedantry110. Who was this black? What were his origins, his class or racial attitudes, his psychological views, his true emotions, his aesthetic111, his political ideas? Was he a revolutionary? Would he be for black guerrilla warfare112? Unless Sammler had private thoughts to occupy him, he couldn't sit through these talks with Margotte. She was sweet but on the theoretical side very tedious, and when she settled down to an earnest theme, one was lost. This was why he ground his own coffee, boiled water in his flask, kept onion rolls in the humidor, even urinated in the washbasin (rising on his toes to a meditation113 on the inherent melancholy114 of animal nature, continually in travail115, according to Aristotle). Because mornings could disappear while Margotte in her goodness speculated. He had learned his lesson one week when she wished to analyze116 Hannah Arendt's phrase The Banality118 of Evil, and kept him in the living room, sitting on a sofa (made of foam119 rubber, laid on plywood supported by two-inch sections of pipe, backed by trapezoids of cushion all covered in dark-gray denim). He couldn't bring himself to say what he thought. For one thing, she seldom stopped to listen. For another, he doubted that he could make himself clear. Moreover, most of her family had been destroyed by the Nazis120 like his own, though she herself had gotten out in 1937. Not he. The war had caught him, with Shula and his late wife, in Poland. They had gone there to liquidate121 his father-in-law's estate. Lawyers should have attended to this, but it was important to Antonina to supervise it in person. She was killed in 1940, and her father's optical-instrument factory (a small one) was dismantled122 and sent to Austria. No postwar indemnity123 was paid. Margotte received payment from the West German government for her family's property in Frankfurt . Arkin hadn't left her much; she needed this German money. You didn't argue with people in such circumstances . Of course he had circumstances of his own, as she recognized. He had actually gone through it, lost his wife, lost an eye. Still, on the theoretical side, they could discuss the question. Purely124 as a question. Uncle Artur, sitting, knees high in the sling125 chair, his pale-tufted eyes shaded by tinted126 glasses, the forked veins127 coming down from the swells129 of his forehead and the big mouth determined130 to be silent.
"The idea being," said Margotte, "that here is no great spirit of evil. Those people were too insignificant131, Uncle. They were just ordinary lower-class people, administrators132, small bureaucrats133, or Lumpenproletariat. A mass society does not produce great criminals. It's because of the division of labor11 all over society which broke up the whole idea of general responsibility. Piecework did it. It's like instead of a forest with enormous trees, you have to think of small plants with shallow roots. Modem134 civilization doesn't create great individual phenomena any more."
The late Arkin, generally affectionate and indulgent, knew how to make Margotte shut up. He was a tall, splendid, half-bald, mustached man with a good subtle brain in his head. Political theory had been his field. He taught at Hunter College—taught women. Charming, idiotic, nonsensical girls, he used to say. Now and then, a powerful female intelligence, but very angry, very complaining, too much sex-ideology, poor things. It was when he was on his way to Cincinnati to lecture at some Hebrew college that his plane crashed. Sammler noticed how his widow tended now to impersonate him. She had become the political theorist. She spoke135 in his name, as presumably he would have done, and there was no one to protect his ideas. The common fate also of Socrates and Jesus. Up to a point, Arkin had enjoyed Margotte's tormenting136 conversation, it must be admitted. Her nonsense pleased him, and under the mustache he would grin to himself, long arms reaching to the ends of the trapezoidal cushions, and his stockinged feet set upon each other (he took off his shoes the instant he sat down). But after she had gone on a while, he would say, "Enough, enough of this Weimar schmaltz. Cut it, Margottel" That big virile137 interruption would never be heard again in this cockeyed living room.
Margotte was short, round, full. Her legs in black net stockings, especially the underthighs, were attractively heavy. Seated, she put out one foot like a dancer, instep curved forward. She set her strong little fist on her haunch. Arkin once said to Uncle Sammler that she was a first-class device as long as someone aimed her in the right direction. She was a good soul, he told him, but the energetic goodness could be tremendously misapplied. Sammler saw this for himself. She couldn't wash a tomato without getting her sleeves wet. The place was burglarized because she raised the window to admire a sunset and forgot to lock it. The burglars entered the dining room from the rooftop just below. The sentimental value of her lockets, chains, rings, heirlooms was not appreciated by the insurance company. The windows were now nailed shut and draped. Meals were eaten by candlelight. Just enough glow to see the framed reproductions from the Museum of Modern Art, and across the table, Margotte serving, spattering the tablecloth140; her lovely grin, dark and tender, with clean, imperfect small teeth, and eyes dark blue and devoid141 of wickedness. A bothersome creature, willing, cheerful, purposeful , maladroit142. The cups and tableware were greasy143. She forgot to flush the toilet. But all that one could easily live with. It was her earnestness that gave the trouble—considering everything under the sun with such German wrongheadedness. As though to be Jewish weren't trouble enough, the poor woman was German too.
"So. And what is your opinion, dear Uncle Sammler?" At last she asked. "I know you have thought a lot about this. You experienced so much. And you and Ussher had such conversations about that crazy old fellow—King Rumkowski. The man from Lodz. . . . What do you think?"
Uncle Sammler had compact cheeks, his color was good for a man in his seventies, and he was not greatly wrinkled. There were, however, on the left side, the blind side, thin long lines like the lines in a cracked glass or within a cake of ice.
To answer was not useful. It would produce more discussion, more explanation.
Nevertheless, he was addressed by another human being. He was old-fashioned. The courtesy of some reply was necessary.
"The idea of making the century's great crime look dull is not banal117. Politically, psychologically, the Germans had an idea of genius. The banality was only camouflage144. What better way to get the curse out of murder than to make it look ordinary, boring, or trite145? With horrible political insight they found a way to disguise the thing. Intellectuals do not understand. They get their notions about matters like this from literature. They expect a wicked hero like Richard III. But do you think the Nazis didn't know what murder was? Everybody (except certain bluestockings ) knows what murder is. That is very old human knowledge. The best and purest human beings, from the beginning of time, have understood that life is sacred. To defy that old understanding is not banality. There was a conspiracy147 against the sacredness of life. Banality is the adopted disguise of a very powerful will to abolish conscience. Is such a project trivial? Only if human life is trivial. This woman professor's enemy is modern civilization itself. She is only using the Germans to attack the twentieth century—to denounce it in terms invented by Germans. Making use of a tragic history to promote the foolish ideas of Weimar intellectuals."
Arguments! Explanations! thought Sammler. All will explain everything to all, until the next, the new common version is ready. This version, a residue148 of what people for a century or so say to one another, will be, like the old, a fiction. More elements of reality perhaps will be incorporated in the new version. But the important consideration was that life should recover its plenitude, its normal contented149 turgidity. All the old fusty stuff had to be blown away, of course, so we might be nearer to nature. To be nearer to nature was necessary in order to keep in balance the achievements of modern Method. The Germans had been the giants of this Method in industry and war. To relax from rationality and calculation, machinery150, planning , technics, they had romance, mythomania, peculiar151 aesthetic fanaticism153. These, too, were like machines—the aesthetic machine, the philosophic154 machine, the mythomanic machine, the culture machine. Machines in the sense of being systematic155. System demands mediocrity, not greatness. System is based on labor. Labor connected to art is banality. Hence the sensitivity of cultivated Germans to everything banal. It exposed the rule, the rule, the might of Method, and their submission156 to Method. Sammler had it all figured out. Alert to the peril157 and disgrace of explanations, he was himself no mean explainer. And even in the old days, in the days when he was `British," in the lovely twenties and thirties when he lived in Great Russell Street, when he was acquainted with Maynard Keynes, Lytton Strachey, and H. G. Wells and loved "British" views, before the great squeeze, the human physics of the war, with its volumes, its vacuums, its voids (that period of dynamics158 and direct action upon the individual, comparable biologically to birth), he had never much trusted his judgment159 where Germans were concerned. The Weimar Republic was not attractive to him in any way. No, there was an exception—he had admired its Plancks and Einsteins. Hardly anyone else.
In any case, he was not going to be one of those kindly160 European uncles with whom the Margottes of this world could have day-long high-level discussions. She would have liked him trailing after her through the apartment while, for two hours, she unpacked161 the groceries, hunting for lunch a salami which was already on the shelf; while she slapped and smoothed the bed with short strong arms (she kept the bedroom piously162 unchanged, after the death of Ussher-his swivel chair, his footstool, his Hobbes, Vico, Hume, and Marx underlined), discussing things. He found that even if he could get a word in edgewise it was encircled and cut off right away. Margotte swept on, enormously desirous of doing good. And really she was good (that was the point), she was boundlessly163, achingly, hopelessly on the right side, the best side, of every big human question: for creativity, for the young, for the black, the poor, the oppressed, for victims, for sinners, for the hungry.
A significant remark by Ussher Arkin, giving much to think of after his death, was that he had learned to do the good thing as if practicing a vice139. He must have been thinking of his wife as a sexual partner. She had probably driven him to erotic invention, and made monogamy a fascinating challenge. Margotte, continually recalling Ussher, spoke of him always, Germanically, as her Man. "When my Man was alive . . . my Man used to say." Sammler was sorry for his widowed niece. You could criticize her endlessly. High-minded, she bored you, she made cruel inroads into your time, your thought, your patience. She talked junk, she gathered waste and junk in the flat, she bred junk. Look, for instance, at these plants she was trying to raise. She planted avocado pits, lemon seeds, peas, potatoes. Was there anything ever so mangy, trashy, as these potted objects? Shrubs164 and vines dragged on the ground, tried to rise on grocer's string hopefully stapled166 fanwise to the ceiling. The stems of the avocados looked like the sticks of fireworks falling back after the flash, and produced a few rusty167, spiky168, anthrax-damaged, nitty leaves. This botanical ugliness, the product of so much fork-digging, watering, so much breast and arm, heart and hope, told you something, didn't it? First of all, it told you that the individual facts were filled with messages and meanings, but you couldn't be sure what the messages meant. She wanted a bower169 in her living room, a screen of glossy170 leaves, flowers, a garden, blessings171 of freshness and beauty—something to foster as woman the germinatrix, the matriarch of reservoirs and gardens. Humankind, crazy for symbols, trying to utter what it doesn't know itself. Meantime the spreading fanlike featherless quills172: no peacock purple, no sweet blue, no true green, but only spots before your eyes. Redeemed173 by a feeling of ready and available human warmth? No, you couldn't be sure. The strain of unrelenting analytical174 effort gave Mr. Sammler a headache. The worst of it was that these frazzled plants would not, could not respond. There was not enough light. Too much clutter175.
But when it came to clutter, his daughter, Shula, was much worse. He had lived with Shula for several years, just east of Broadway. She had too many oddities for her old father. She passionately176 collected things. In plainer words, she was a scavenger177. More than once, he had seen her hunting through Broadway trash baskets (or, as he still called them, dustbins). She wasn't old, not bad looking, not even too badly dressed, item by item. The full effect would have been no worse than vulgar if she had not been obviously a nut. She turned up in a miniskirt of billiard-table green, revealing legs sensual in outline but without inner sensuality; at the waist a broad leather belt; over shoulders, bust178, a coarse strong Guatemalan embroidered179 shirt; on her head a wig180 such as a female impersonator might put on at a convention of salesmen. Her own hair had a small curl, a minute distortion. It put her in a rage. She cried out that it was thin, she had masculine hair. Thin it evidently was, but not the other. She had it straight from Sammler's mother, a hysterical181 woman, certainly, and anything but masculine. But who knew how many sexual difficulties and complications were associated with Shula's hair? And, from the troubled widow's peak, following an imaginary line of illumination over the nose, originally fine but distorted by restless movement, over the ridiculous comment of the lips (swelling, painted dark red), and down between the breasts to the middle of the body—what problems there must be! Sammler kept hearing how she had taken her wig to a good hairdresser to have it set, and how the hairdresser exclaimed, please! to take the thing away, it was too cheap for him to work on! Sammler did not know whether this was an isolated182 incident involving one homosexual stylist, or whether it had happened on several separate occasions. He saw many open elements in his daughter. Things that ought but failed actually to connect. Wigs183 for instance suggested Orthodoxy; Shula in fact had Jewish connections. She seemed to know lots of rabbis in famous temples and synagogues on Central Park West and on the East Side. She went to sermons and free lectures everywhere. Where she found the patience for this Sammler could not say. He could bear no lecture for more than ten minutes. But she, with loony, clever, large eyes, the face full of white comment and skin thickened with concentration, sat on her rucked-up skirt, the shopping bag with salvage184, loot, coupons185, and throwaway literature between her knees. Afterward186 she was the first to ask questions. She became well acquainted with the rabbi, the rabbi's wife and family—involved in Dadaist discussions about faith, ritual, Zionism, Masada, the Arabs. But she had Christian periods as well. Hidden in a Polish convent for four years, she had been called Slawa, and now there were times when she answered only to that name. Almost always at Easter she was a Catholic. Ash Wednesday was observed, and it was with a smudge between the eyes that she often came into clear focus for the old gentleman. With the little Jewish twists of kinky hair descending187 from the wig beside the ears and the florid lips dark red, skeptical31, accusing, affirming something substantive189 about her life-claim, her right to be whatever—whatever it all came to. Full of comment always, the mouth completing the premises190 stated from an insane angle by the merging191 dark eyes. Not altogether crazy, perhaps. But she would come in saying that she had been run down by mounted policemen in Central Park. They were trying to recapture a deer escaped from the zoo, and she was absorbed, reading an article in Look, and they knocked her over. She was, however, quite cheerful. She was far too cheerful for Sammler. At night she typed. She sang at her typewriter. She was employed by cousin Gruner, the doctor, who had this work invented for her. Gruner had saved her (it amounted to that) from her equally crazy husband, Eisen, in Israel, sending Sammler ten years ago to bring Shula-Slawa to New York.
That had been Sammler's first journey to Israel. Brief. On a family matter.
Unusually handsome, brilliant-looking, Eisen had been wounded at Stalingrad. With other mutilated veterans in Rumania, later, he had been thrown from a moving train. Apparently192 because he was a Jew. Eisen had frozen his feet; his toes were amputated. "Oh, they were drunk," said Eisen in Haifa. "Good fellows—tovarischni. But you know what Russians are when they have a few glasses of vodka." He grinned at Sammler. Black curls, a handsome Roman nose, shining sharp senseless saliva-moist teeth. The trouble was that he kicked and beat Shula-Slawa quite often, even as a newlywed. Old Sammler in the cramped193, stone-smelling, whitewashed194 apartment in Haifa considered the palm branches at the window in a warm, clear atmosphere. Shula was cooking for them out of a Mexican cookbook, making bitter chocolate sauce, grating coconuts195 over chicken breasts, complaining that you could not buy chutney in Haifa. "When I was thrown out," said Eisen cheerfully, "I thought I would go and see the Pope. I took a stick and walked to Italy. The stick was my crutch196, you see."
"I see."
"I went to Castel Gandolfo. The Pope was very nice to us."
After three days Mr. Sammler saw that he would have to remove his daughter. He could not stay long in Israel. He was unwilling197 to spend Elya Gruner's money. But he did visit Nazareth and took a taxi to Galilee, for the historical interest of the thing, as long as he was in the vicinity. On a sandy road, he found a gaucho198. Under a platter hat fastened beneath the large chin, in Argentinian bloomers tucked into boots, with a Douglas Fairbanks mustache, he was mixing feed for small creatures racing199 about him in a chicken-wire enclosure. Water from a hose ran clear and pleasant in the sun over the yellow meal or mash38 and stained it orange. The little animals though fat were lithe200; they were heavy, their coats shone, opulent and dense201. These were nutrias. Their fur made hats worn in cold climates. Coats for ladies. Mr. Sammler, feeling red-faced in the Galilean sunlight, interrogated202 this man. In his bass203 voice of a distinguished traveler—a cigarette held between his hairy knuckles204, smoke escaping past his hairy ears—he put questions to the gaucho. Neither spoke Hebrew. Nor the language of Jesus. Mr. Sammler fell back on Italian, which the nutria breeder in Argentine gloom comprehended, his heavy handsome face considering the greedy beasts about his boots. He was Bessarabian-Syrian-South American—a Spanish- speaking Israeli cowpuncher from the pampas.
Did he butcher the little animals himself? Sammler wished to know. His Italian had never been good. "Uccidere?" "Ammazzare?" The gaucho understood. When the time came, he killed them himself. He struck them on the head with a stick.
Didn't he mind doing this to his little flock? Hadn't he known them from infancy—was there no tenderness for individuals—were there no favorites? The gaucho denied it all. He shook his handsome head. He said that nutrias were very stupid.
"Son muy tontos."
"Arrivederci," said Sammler.
"Adios. Shalom."
Mr. Sammler's hired car took him to Capernaum, where Jesus had preached in the synagogue. From afar, he saw the Mount of the Beatitudes. Two eyes would have been inadequate205 to the heaviness and smoothness of the color, parted with difficulty by fishing boats—the blue water, unusually dense, heavy, seemed sunk under the naked Syrian heights. Mr. Sammler's heart was very much torn by feelings as he stood under the short, leaf-streaming banana trees.
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon . . .
But those were England's mountains green. The mountains opposite, in serpentine206 nakedness, were not at all green; they were ruddy, with smoky cavities and mysteries of inhuman207 power flaming above them.
The many impressions and experiences of life seemed no longer to occur each in its own proper space, in sequence, each with its recognizable religious or aesthetic importance, but human beings suffered the humiliations of inconsequence, of confused styles, of a long life containing several separate lives. In fact the whole experience of mankind was now covering each separate life in its flood. Making all the ages of history simultaneous. Compelling the frail208 person to receive, to register, depriving him because of volume, of mass, of the power to impart design.
Well, that was Sammler's first visit to the Holy Land. A decade later, for another purpose, he went again.
Shula had returned with Sammler to America. Rescued from Eisen, who walloped her, he said, because she went to Catholic priests, because she was a liar152 (lies infuriated him; paranoiacs, Sammler concluded, are more passionate for pure truth than other madmen), Shula-Slawa set up housekeeping in New York. Creating, that is, a great clutter-center in the New World. Mr. Sammler, a polite Slim-Jim (the nickname Dr. Gruner had given him), a considerate father, muttering appreciation209 of each piece of rubbish as presented to him, was in certain moods explosive, under provocation210 more violent than other people. In fact, his claim for indemnity from the Bonn government was based upon damage to his nervous system as well as his eye. Fits of rage, very rare but shattering, laid him up with intense migraines, put him in a postepileptic condition. Then he lay most of a week in a dark room, rigid9, hands gripped on his chest, bruised211, aching, incapable212 of an answer when spoken to. With Shula-Slawa, he had a series of such attacks. First of all, he couldn't bear the building Gruner had put them into, with its stone stoop slumping213 to one side, into the cellar stairway of the Chinese laundry adjoining. The lobby made him ill, tiles like yellow teeth set in desperate grime, and the stinking215 elevator shaft216. The bathroom where Shula kept an Easter chick from Kresge's until it turned into a hen that squawked on the edge of the tub. The Christmas decorations which lasted into spring. The rooms themselves were like those dusty red paper Christmas bells, folds within folds. The hen with yellow legs in his room on his documents and books was too much one day. He was aware that the sun shone brightly, the sky was blue, but the big swell128 of the apartment house, heavyweight vaselike baroque , made him feel that the twelfth-story room was like a china cabinet into which he was locked, and the satanic hen-legs of wrinkled yellow clawing his papers made him scream out.
Shula-Slawa then agreed that he should move. She told everyone that her father's lifework, his memoir217 of H. G. Wells, made him too tense to live with. She had H. G. Wells on the brain, the large formation of a lifetime. H. G. Wells was the most august human being she knew of. She had been a small girl when the Sammlers lived in Woburn Square, Bloomsbury, and with childish genius accurately218 read the passions of her parents—their pride in high connections, their snobbery219, how contented they were with the cultural best of England. Old Sammler thinking of his wife in prewar Bloomsbury days interpreted a certain quiet, bosomful way she had of conveying with a downward stroke of the hand, so delicate you had to know her well to identify it as a vaunting gesture : we have the most distinguished intimacy221 with the finest people in Britain. A small vice—almost nutritive, digestive—which gave Antonina softer cheeks, smoother hair, deeper color. If a little social-climbing made her handsomer (plumper between the legs—the thought rushed in and Sammler had stopped trying to repel222 these mental rushes), it had its feminine justification223. Love is the most potent224 cosmetic225, but there are others. And the little girl may actually have observed that the very mention of Wells had a combined social-erotic influence on her mother. Judging not, and recalling Wells always with respect, Sammler knew that he had been a horny man of labyrinthine226 extraordinary sensuality. As a biologist, as a social thinker concerned with power and world projects, the molding of a universal order, as a furnisher of interpretation227 and opinion to the educated masses—as all of these he appeared to need a great amount of copulation. Nowadays Sammler would recall him as a little lower-class Limey, and as an aging man of declining ability and appeal. And in the agony of parting with the breasts, the mouths, and the precious sexual fluids of women, poor Wells, the natural teacher, the sex emancipator228, the explainer, the humane229 blesser of mankind, could in the end only blast and curse everyone. Of course he wrote such things in his final sickness , horribly depressed230 by World War II.
What Shula-Slawa said came back amusingly to Sammler through Angela Gruner. Shula visited Angela in the East Sixties, where her cousin had the beautiful, free, and wealthy young woman's ideal New York apartment. Shula admired this. Apparently without envy, without self-consciousness, Shula with wig and shopping bag, her white face puckering231 with continual inspiration (receiving and transmitting wild messages), sat as awkwardly as possible in the super comfort of Angela’s upholstery, blobbing china and forks with lipstick. In Shula's version of things her father had had conversations with H. G. Wells lasting232 several years. He took his notes to Poland in 1939, expecting to have spare time for the memoir. Just then the country exploded. In the geyser that rose a mile or two into the skies were Papa's notes. But (with his memory!) he knew it all by heart, and all you had to do was ask what Wells had said to him about Lenin, Stalin, Mussolini, Hitler, world peace, atomic energy, the Open Conspiracy, the colonization233 of the planets. Whole passages came back to Papa. He had to concentrate of course. Thus she turned about his moving in with Margotte until it became her idea. He had moved away to concentrate better. He said he didn't have much time left. But obviously he exaggerated. He looked so well. He was such a handsome person. Elderly widows were always asking her about him. The mother of Rabbi Ipsheimer. The grandmother of lpsheimer, more likely. Anyway (Angela still reporting), Wells had communicated things to Sammler that the world didn't know. When finally published they would astonish everybody. The book would take the form of dialogues like those with A. N. Whitehead which Sammler admired so much.
Low-voiced, husky, a hint of joking brass in her tone, Angela (just this side of coarseness, a beautiful woman) said, "Her Wells routine is so great. Were you that close to H. G., Uncle?"
"We were well acquainted."
"But chums? Were you bosom220 buddies234?"
"Oh? My dear girl, in spite of my years, I am a man of the modem age. You do not find David and Jonathan, Roland and Olivier bosom buddies in these days. The man's company was very pleasant. He seemed also to enjoy conversation with me. As for his views, he was just a mass of intelligent views. He expressed as many as he could, and at all times. Everything he said I found eventually in written form. He was like Voltaire, a graphomaniac. His mind was unusually active, he thought he should explain everything, and he actually said some things very well. Like 'Science is the mind of the race.' That's true, you know. It's a better thing to emphasize than other collective facts, like disease or sin. And when I see the wing of a jet plane I don't only see metal, but metal tempered by the agreement of many minds which know the pressure and velocity235 and weight, calculating on their slide rules whether they are Hindus or Chinamen or from the Congo or Brazil. Yes, on the whole he was a sensible intelligent person, certainly on the right side of many questions." "And you used to be interested."
"Yes, I used to be interested."
"But she says you're composing that great work a mile a minute."
She laughed. Not merely laughed, but laughed brilliantly. In Angela you confronted sensual womanhood without remission. You smelled it, too. She wore the odd stylish236 things which Sammler noted with detached and purified dryness, as if from a different part of the universe. What were those, white-kid buskins? What were those tights—sheer, opaque237? Where did they lead? That effect of the hair called frosting, that color under the lioness's muzzle238, that swagger to enhance the natural power of the bust l Her plastic coat inspired by cubists or Mondrian, geometrical black and white forms; her trousers by Courrèges and Pucci. Sammler followed these jet phenomena in the Times, and in the women's magazines sent by Angela herself. Not too closely. He did not read too much of this. Careful to guard his eyesight, he passed pages rapidly back and forth239 before his eye, the large forehead registering the stimulus240 to his mind. The damaged left eye seemed to turn in another direction, to be preoccupied241 separately with different matters. Thus Sammler knew, through many rapid changes, Warhol, Baby Jane Holzer while she lasted, the Living Theater, the outbursts of nude242 display more and more revolutionary, Dionysus '69, copulation on the stage, the philosophy of the Beatles; and in the art world, electric shows and minimal243 painting. Angela was in her thirties now, independently wealthy, with ruddy skin, gold-whitish hair, big lips. She was afraid of obesity244. She either fasted or ate like a stevedore245. She trained in a fashionable gym. He knew her problems—he had to know, for she came and discussed them in detail. She did not know his problems. He seldom talked and she seldom asked. Moreover, he and Shula were her father's pensioners246, dependents—call it what you like. So after psychiatric sessions, Angela came to Uncle Sammler to hold a seminar and analyze the preceding hour. Thus the old man knew what she did and with whom and how it felt. All that she knew how to say he had to hear. He could not choose but.
Sammler in his Gymnasium days once translated from Saint Augustine: "The Devil hath established his cities in the North." He thought of this often. In Cracow before World War I he had had another version of it—desperate darkness, the dreary247 liquid yellow mud to a depth of two inches over cobblestones in the Jewish streets. People needed their candles, their lamps and their copper kettles, their slices of lemon in the image of the sun. This was the conquest of grimness with the aid always of Mediterranean248 symbols. Dark environments overcome by imported religious signs and local domestic amenities250. Without the power of the North, its mines, its industries, the world would never have reached its astonishing modern form. And regardless of Augustine, Sammler had always loved his Northern cities, especially London, the blessings of its gloom, of coal smoke, gray rains, and the mental and human opportunities of a dark muffled251 environment. There one came to terms with obscurity, with low tones, one did not demand full clarity of mind or motive252. But now Augustine's odd statement required a new interpretation. Listening to Angela carefully, Sammler perceived different developments. The labor of Puritanism now was ending. The dark satanic mills changing into light satanic mills. The reprobates253 converted into children of joy, the sexual ways of the seraglio and of the Congo bush adopted by the emancipated254 masses of New York, Amsterdam, London. Old Sammler with his screwy visions! He saw the increasing triumph of Enlightenment—Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, Adultery! Enlightenment, universal education, universal suffrage255, the rights of the majority acknowledged by all governments, the rights of women, the rights of children, the rights of criminals, the unity256 of the different races affirmed, Social Security, public health, the dignity of the person, the right to justice—the struggles of three revolutionary centuries being won while the feudal257 bonds of Church and Family weakened and the privileges of aristocracy (without any duties) spread wide, democratized , especially the libidinous258 privileges, the right to be uninhibited, spontaneous, urinating, defecating, belching259, coupling in all positions, tripling, quadrupling, polymorphous, noble in being natural, primitive260, combining the leisure and luxurious261 inventiveness of Versailles with the hibiscus-covered erotic ease of Samoa. Dark romanticism now took hold. As old at least as the strange Orientalism of the Knights262 Templar, and since then filled up with Lady Stanhopes, Baudelaires, de Nervals, Stevensons , and Gauguins—those South-loving barbarians263. Oh yes, the Templars. They had adored the Muslims. One hair from the head of a Saracen was more precious than the whole body of a Christian. Such crazy fervor264! And now all the racism265, all the strange erotic persuasions266, the tourism and local color, the exotics of it had broken up but the mental masses, inheriting everything in a debased state, had formed an idea of the corrupting267 disease of being white and of the healing power of black. The dreams of nineteenth-century poets polluted the psychic269 atmosphere of the great boroughs270 and suburbs of New York. Add to this the dangerous lunging staggering crazy violence of fanatics271, and the trouble was very deep. Like many people who had seen the world collapse272 once, Mr. Sammler entertained the possibility it might collapse twice. He did not agree with refugee friends that this doom273 was inevitable274, but liberal beliefs did not seem capable of self-defense, and you could smell decay. You could see the suicidal impulses of civilization pushing strongly. You wondered whether this Western culture could survive universal dissemination—whether only its science and technology or administrative275 practices would travel, be adopted by other societies. Or whether the worst enemies of civilization might not prove to be its petted intellectuals who attacked it at its weakest moments—attacked it in the name of proletarian revolution, in the name of reason, and in the name of irrationality276, in the name of visceral depth, in the name of sex, in the name of perfect instantaneous freedom. For what it amounted to was limitless demand—insatiability, refusal of the doomed277 creature (death being sure and final) to go away from this earth unsatisfied. A full bill of demand and complaint was therefore presented by each individual. Nonnegotiable. Recognizing no scarcity278 of supply in any human department. Enlightenment? Marvelous! But out of hand, wasn't it?
Sammler saw this in Shula-Slawa. She came to do his room. He had to sit in his beret and coat, for she needed fresh air. She arrived with cleaning materials in the shopping bag—ammonia, shelf paper, Windex, floor wax, rags. She sat out on the sill to wash the windows, lowering the sash to her thighs138. Her little shoe soles were inside the room. On her lips—a burst of crimson279 asymmetrical280 skeptical fleshy business-and-dream sensuality—the cigarette scorching281 away at the tip. There was the wig, too, mixed yak282 and baboon283 hair and synthetic284 fibers285. Shula, like all the ladies perhaps, was needy—needed gratification of numerous instincts, needed the warmth and pressure of men, needed a child for sucking and nurture286, needed female emancipation287, needed the exercise of the mind, needed continuity, needed interest—interest!—needed flattery, needed triumph, power, needed rabbis, needed priests, needed fuel for all that was perverse288 and crazy, needed noble action of the intellect, needed culture, demanded the sublime289. No scarcity was acknowledged. If you tried to deal with all these immediate37 needs you were a lost man. Even to consider it all the way she did, spraying cold froth on the panes290, swabbing it away, left-handed with a leftward swing of the bust (ohne Büstenhalter), was neither affection for her, nor preservation291 for her father. When she arrived and opened windows and doors the personal atmosphere Mr. Sammler had accumulated and stored blew ... His back door opened to the service staircase, where a hot smell of incineration rushed from the chute, charred292 paper, chicken entrails, and burnt feathers. The Puerto Rican sweepers carried transistors293 playing Latin music. As if supplied with this jazz from a universal unfailing source, like cosmic rays.
"Well, Father, how is it going?"
"What is going?" '
"The work. H.G. Wells?"
"As usual."
"People take up too much of your time. You don't get enough reading done. I know you have to protect your eyesight. But is it going all right?"
"Tremendous."
"I wish you wouldn't make jokes about it."
"Why, is it too important for jokes?"
"Well, it is important."
Yes. O.K. He was sipping294 his morning coffee. Today, this very afternoon, he was going to speak at Columbia University. One of his young Columbia friends had persuaded him. Also, he must call up about his nephew. Dr. Gruner. It seemed the doctor himself was in the hospital. Had had, so Sammler was told, minor295 surgery. Cutting in the neck. One could do without that seminar today. It was a mistake. Could he back out, beg off? No, probably not.
Shula had hired university students to read to him, to spare his eyes. She herself had tried it, but her voice made him nod off. Half an hour of her reading, and the blood left his brain. She told Angela that her father tried to fence her out of his higher activities. As if they had to be protected from the very person who believed most in them! It was a very sad paradox296. But for four or five years she had found student readers. Some had graduated, now were in professions or business but still came back to visit Sammler. "He is like their guru," said Shula-Slawa. More recent readers were student activists297. Mr. Sammler was quite interested in the radical298 movement. To judge by their reading ability, the young people had had a meager299 education. Their presence sometimes induced (or deepened) a long, still smile which had the effect more than anything else of blindness. Hairy, dirty, without style, levelers, ignorant. He found after they had read to him for a few hours that he had to teach them the subject, explain the terms, do etymologies300 for them as though they were twelve-year-olds. "Janua—a door. Janitor—one who minds the door." "Lapis, a stone. Dilapidate, take apart the stones. One cannot say it of a person." But if one could, one would say it of these young persons. Some of the poor girls had a bad smell. Bohemian protest did them the most harm. It was elementary among the tasks and problems of civilization, thought Mr. Sammler, that some parts of nature demanded more control than others. Females were naturally more prone301 to grossness, had more smells, needed more washing, clipping, binding, pruning302, grooming303, perfuming, and training. These poor kids may have resolved to stink214 together in defiance304 of a corrupt268 tradition built on neurosis and falsehood, but Mr. Sammler thought that an unforeseen result of their way of life was loss of femininity, of self-esteem. In their revulsion from authority they would respect no persons. Not even their own persons.
Anyhow, he no longer wanted these readers with the big dirty boots and the helpless vital pathos305 of young dogs with their first red erections, and pimples306 sprung to the cheeks from foaming307 beards, laboring308 in his room with hard words and thoughts that had to be explained, stumbling through Toynbee, Freud, Burckhardt, Spengler. For he had been reading historians of civilization-Karl Marx, Max Weber, Max Scheler, Franz Oppenheimer. Side excursions into Adorno, Marcuse, Norman O. Brown, whom he found to be worthless fellows. Together with these he took on Doktor Faustus, Les Noyers de l'Altenburg, Ortega, Valéry's essays on history and politics. But after four or five years of this diet, he wished to read only certain religious writers of the thirteenth century—Suso, Tauler, and Meister Eckhart. In his seventies he was interested in little more than Meister Eckhart and the Bible. For this he needed no readers. He read Eckhart's Latin at the public library from microfilm. He read the Sermons and the Talks of Instruction—a few sentences at a time—a paragraph of Old German— presented to his good eye at close range. While Margotte ran the carpet sweeper through the rooms. Evidently getting most of the lint309 on her skirts. And singing. She loved Schubert lieder. Why she had to mingle310 them with the zoom311 of the vacuum eluded312 his powers of explanation. But then he could not explain a liking313 for certain combinations; for instance, sandwiches of sturgeon, Swiss cheese, tongue, steak tartare, and Russian dressing314 in layers—such things as one saw on fancy delicatessen menus. Yet customers seemed to order them. No matter where you picked it up, humankind, knotted and tangled315, supplied more oddities than you could keep up with.
A combined oddity, for instance, which drew him today into the middle of things: One of his ex-readers, young Lionel Feffer, had asked him to address a seminar at Columbia University on the British Scene in the Thirties. For some reason this attracted Sammler. He was fond of Feffer. An ingenious operator, less student than promoter. With his florid color, brown beaver316 beard, long black eyes, big belly, smooth hair, pink awkward large hands, loud interrupting voice, hasty energy, he was charming to Sammler. Not trustworthy. Only charming. That is, it sometimes gave Sammler great pleasure to see Lionel Feffer working out in his peculiar manner, to hear the fizzing of his vital gas, his fuel.
Sammler didn't know what seminar this was. Not always attentive317, he failed to understand clearly; perhaps there was nothing clear to understand; but it seemed that he had promised, although he couldn't remember promising318. But Feffer confused him. There were so many projects, such cross references, so many confidences and requests for secrecy319, so many scandals, frauds, spiritual communications—a continual flow backward, forward, lateral320, above, below; like any page of Joyce's Ulysses, always in medias res. Anyway, Sammler had apparently agreed to give this talk for a student project to help backward black pupils with their reading problems.
"You must come and talk to these fellows, it's of the utmost importance. They have never heard a point of view like yours," said Feffer. The pink oxford-cloth shirt increased the color of his face. The beard, the straight large sensual nose made him look like Fran?ois Premier321. A bustling322, affectionate, urgent, eruptive, enterprising character. He had money in the stock market. He was vice-president of a Guatemalan insurance company covering railroad workers. His field at the university was diplomatic history. He belonged to a corresponding society called the Foreign Ministers' Club. Its members took up a question like the Crimean War or the Boxer323 Rebellion and did it all again, writing one another letters as the foreign ministers of France, England, Germany, Russia. They obtained very different results. In addition, Feffer was a busy seducer324, especially, it seemed, of young wives. But he found time as well to hustle325 on behalf of handicapped children. He got them free toys and signed photographs of hockey stars; he found time to visit them in the hospital. He "found time." To Sammler this was a highly significant American fact. Feffer led a high-energy American life to the point of anarchy326 and breakdown327. And yet devotedly328. And of course he was in psychiatric treatment. They all were. They could always say that they were sick. Nothing was omitted.
"The British Scene in the Thirties—you must. For my seminar."
"That old stuff?"
"Exactly. Just what we need."
"Bloomsbury? All of that? But why? And for whom?"
Feffer called for Sammler in a taxi. They went uptown in style. Feffer stressed the style of it. He said the driver must wait while Sammler gave his talk. The driver, a Negro, refused. Feffer raised his voice. He said this was a legal matter. Sammler persuaded him to drop it as he was about to call the police. "There is no need to have a taxi waiting for me," said Sammler.
"Go get lost then," said Feffer to the cabbie. "And no tip."
"Don't abuse him," Sammler said.
"I won't make any distinction because he's black," said Lionel. "I hear from Margotte that you've been running into a black pickpocket, by the way."
"Where do we go, Lionel? Now that I’m about to speak, I have misgivings329. I feel unclear. What, really, am I supposed to say? The topic is so vast."
"You know it better than anyone."
"I know it, yes. But I am uneasy—somewhat shaky."
"You'll be great."
Then Feffer led him into a large room. He had expected a small one, a seminar room. He had come to reminisce, for a handful of interested students, about R. H. Tawney, Harold Laski, John Strachey, George Orwell, H. G. Wells. But this was a mass meeting of some sort. His obstructed330 vision took in a large, spreading, shaggy, composite human bloom. It was malodorous, peculiarly rancid, sulphurous. The amphitheater was filled. Standing146 room only. Was Feffer running one of his rackets? Was he going to pocket the admission money? Sammler mastered and dismissed this suspicion, ascribing it to surprise and nervousness. For he was surprised, frightened. But he pulled himself together. He tried to begin humorously by recalling the lecturer who had addressed incurable331 alcoholics332 under the impression that they were the Browning Society. But there was no laughter, and he had to remember that Browning Societies had been extinct for a long time. A microphone was hung on his chest. He began to speak of the mental atmosphere of England before the Second World War. The Mussolini adventure in East Africa. Spain in 1936. The Great Purges333 in Russia. Stalinism in France and Britain. Blum, Daladier, the People’s Front, Oswald Mosley. The mood of English intellectuals. For this he needed no notes, he could easily recall what people had said or written.
"I assume," he said, "you are acquainted with the background, the events of nineteen seventeen. You know of the mutinous334 armies, the February Revolution in Russia, the disasters that befell authority. In all European countries the old leaders were discredited335 by Verdun, Flanders Field, and Tannenberg. Perhaps I could begin with the fall of Kerensky. Maybe with Brest-Litovsk."
Doubly foreign, Polish-Oxonian, with his outrushing white back hair, the wrinkles streaming below the smoked glasses, he pulled the handkerchief from the breast pocket, unfolded and refolded it, touched his face, wiped his pahns with thin elderly delicacy336. Without pleasure in performance, without the encouragement of attention (there was a good deal of noise), the little satisfaction he did feel was the meager ghost of the pride he and his wife had once taken in their British successes. In his success, a Polish Jew so well acquainted, so handsomely acknowledged by the nobs, by H. G. Wells. Included, for instance, with Gerald Heard and Olaf Stapledon in the Cosmopolis project for a World State, Sammler had written articles for News of Progress, for the other publication, The World Citizen. As he explained in a voice that still contained Polish sibilants and nasals, though impressively low, the project was based on the propagation of the sciences of biology, history, and sociology and the effective application of scientific principles to the enlargement of human life; the building of a planned, orderly, and beautiful world society: abolishing national sovereignty, outlawing337 war; subjecting money and credit, production, distribution , transport, population, arms manufacture et cetera to world-wide collective control, offering free universal education, personal freedom (compatible with community welfare) to the utmost degree; a service society based on a rational scientific attitude toward life. Sammler, with growing interest and confidence recalling all this, lectured on Cosmopolis for half an hour, feeling what a kindhearted, ingenuous338, stupid scheme it had been. Telling this into the lighted restless hole of the amphitheater with the soiled dome249 and caged electric fixtures339, until he was interrupted by a clear loud voice. He was being questioned. He was being shouted at.
"Hey!"
He tried to continue. "Such attempts to draw intellectuals away from Marxism met with small success. . . ."
A man in Levi's, thick-bearded but possibly young, a figure of compact distortion, was standing shouting at him.
"Hey! Old Man!"
In the silence, Mr. Sammler drew down his tinted spectacles, seeing this person with his effective eye.
"Old Man! You quoted Orwell before."
"Yes?"
"You quoted him to say that British radicals341 were all protected by the Royal Navy? Did Orwell say that British radicals were protected by the Royal Navy?"
"Yes, I believe he did say that."
"That's a lot of shit."
Sammler could not speak.
"Orwell was a fink. He was a sick counterrevolutionary. It's good he died when he did. And what you are saying is shit." Turning to the audience, extending violent arms and raising his palms like a Greek dancer, he said, "Why do you listen to this effete342 old shit? What has he got to tell you? His balls are dry. He's dead. He can't come."
Sammler later thought that voices had been raised on his side. Someone had said, "Shame. Exhibitionist."
But no one really tried to defend him. Most of the young people seemed to be against him. The shouting sounded hostile. Feffer was gone, had been called away to the telephone. Sammler, turning from the lectern, found his umbrella, trench343 coat, and hat behind him and left the platform, guided by a young girl who had rushed up to express indignation and sympathy, saying it was a scandal to break up such a good lecture. She showed him through a door, down several stairs, and he was on Broadway at One hundred-sixteenth Street.
Abruptly344 out of the university.
Back in the city.
And he was not so much personally offended by the event as struck by the will to offend. What a passion to be real. But real was also brutal345. And the acceptance of excrement346 as a standard? How extraordinary! Youth? Together with the idea of sexual potency347? All this confused sex- excrement-militancy, explosiveness, abusiveness, tooth-showing, Barbary ape howling. Or like the spider monkeys in the trees, as Sammler once had read, defecating into their hands, and shrieking348, pelting349 the explorers below
He was not sorry to have met the facts, however saddening, regrettable the facts. But the effect was that Mr. Sammler did feel somewhat separated from the rest of his species, if not in some fashion severed—severed not so much by age as by preoccupations too different and remote, disproportionate on the side of the spiritual, Platonic350, Augustinian, thirteenth-century. As the traffic poured, the wind poured, and the sun, relatively351 bright for Manhattan—shining and pouring through the openings in his substance, through his gaps. As if he had been cast by Henry Moore. With holes, lacunae. Again, as after seeing the pickpocket, he was obliged to events for a difference, an intensification352 of vision. A delivery man with a floral cross filling both arms, a bald head dented353, seemed to be drunk, fighting the wind, tacking354. His dull boots small, and his short wide pants blowing like a woman's skirts. Gardenias355, camellias, calla lilies, sailing above him under light transparent plastic. At the Riverside bus stop Mr. Sammler noted the proximity356 of a waiting student, used his eye-power to observe that he wore wide-wale corduroy pants of urinous green, a tweed coat of a carrot color with burls of blue wool; that sideburns stood like powerful bushy pillars to the head; that civilized tortoise-shell shafts357 intersected these; that he had hair thinning at the front; a Jew nose, a heavy all-savoring, all-rejecting lip. Oh, this was an artistic358 diversion of the streets for Mr. Sammler when he was roused to it by some shock. He was studious, he was bookish , and had been trained by the best writers to divert himself with perceptions. When he went out, life was not empty. Meanwhile the purposive, aggressive, business-bent359, conative people did as mankind normally did. If the majority walked about as if under a spell, sleepwalkers, circumscribed360 by, in the grip of, minor neurotic361 trifling362 aims, individuals like Sammler were only one stage forward, awakened363 not to purpose but to aesthetic consumption of the environment. Even if insulted, pained, somewhere bleeding, not broadly expressing any anger, not crying out with sadness, but translating heartache into delicate, even piercing observation. Particles in the bright wind, flinging downtown, acted like emery on the face. The sun shone as if there were no death. For a full minute, while the bus approached, squirting air, it was like that. Then Mr. Sammler got on, moving like a good citizen toward the rear, hoping he would not be pushed past the back door, for he had only fifteen blocks to go, and there was a thick crowd. The usual smell of long-seated bottoms, of sour shoes, of tobacco muck, of stogies, cologne, face powder. And yet along the river, early spring, the first khaki—a few weeks of sun, of heat, and Manhattan would (briefly) join the North American continent in a day of old-time green, the plush luxury, the polish of the season, shining, nitid, the dogwood white, pink, blooming crabapple. Then people's feet would swell with the warmth, and at Rockefeller Center strollers would sit on the polished stone slabs364 beside the planted tulips and tritons and the water, all in a spirit of pregnancy365. Human creatures under the warm shadows of skyscrapers366 feeling the heavy pleasure of their nature, and yielding. Sammler too would enjoy spring-one of those penultimate springs. Of course he was upset. Very. Of course all that stuff about Brest-Litovsk, all that old news about revolutionary intellectuals versus367 the German brass was in this context downright funny. Inconsequent. Of course those students were comical, too. And what was the worst of it (apart from the rudeness)? There were appropriate ways of putting down an old bore. He might well be, especially in a public manifestation368, lecturing on Cosmopolis, an old bore. The worst of it, from the point of view of the young people themselves, was that they acted without dignity. They had no view of the nobility of being intellectuals and judges of the social order. What a pity! old Sammler thought. A human being, valuing himself for the right reasons, has and restores order, authority. When the internal parts are in order. They must be in order. But what was it to be arrested in the stage of toilet training! What was it to be entrapped369 by a psychiatric standard (Sammler blamed the Germans and their psychoanalysis for this)! Who had raised the diaper flag? Who had made shit a sacrament? What literary and psychological movement was that? Mr. Sammler, with bitter angry mind, held the top rail of his jammed bus, riding downtown, a short journey.
He certainly had no thought of his black pickpocket. Him he connected with Columbus Circle. He always went uptown, not down. But at the rear, in his camers-hair coat, filling up a corner with his huge body, he was standing. Sammler against strong internal resistance saw him. He resisted because at this swaying difficult moment he had no wish to see him. Lord! not now! Inside, Sammler felt an immediate descent; his heart sinking. As sure as fate, as a law of nature, a stone falling, a gas rising. He knew the thief did not ride the bus for transportation. To meet a woman, to go home—however he diverted himself—he unquestionably took cabs. He could afford them. But now Mr. Sammler was looking down at his shoulder, the tallest man in the bus, except for the thief himself. He saw that in the long rear seat he had cornered someone. Powerfully bent, the wide back concealed370 the victim from the other passengers. Only Samnler, because of his height, could see. Nothing to be grateful to height or vision for. The cornered man was old, was weak; poor eyes, watering with terror; white lashes371, red lids, and a sea-mucus blue, his eyes, the mouth open with false teeth dropping from the upper gums. Coat and jacket were open also, the shirt pulled forward like detached green wallpaper, and the lining83 of the jacket ragged165. The thief tugged372 his clothes like a doctor with a clinic patient. Pushing aside tie and scarf, he took out the wallet. His own homburg he then eased back (an animal movement, simply) slightly from his forehead, furrowed373 but not with anxiety. The wallet was long-leatherette, plastic. Open, it yielded a few dollar bills. There were cards. The thief put them in his palm. Read them with a tilted374 head. Let them drop. Examined a green federal-looking check, probably Social Security. Mr. Sammler in his goggles375 was troubled in focusing. Too much adrenalin was passing with light, thin, frightening rapidity through his heart. He himself was not frightened, but his heart seemed to record fear, it had a seizure376. He recognized it knew what name to apply: tachycardia. Breathing was hard. He could not fetch in enough air. He wondered whether he might not faint away. Whether worse might not happen. The check the black man put into his own pocket. Snapshots like the cards fell from his fingers. Finished, he then dropped the wallet back into the gray, worn, shattered lining, flipped377 back the old man's muffler. In ironic378 calm, thumb and forefinger took the knot of the necktie and yanked it approximately, but only approximately, into place. It was at this moment that, in a quick turn of the head, he saw Mr. Sammler. Mr. Sammler seen seeing was still in rapid currents with his heart. Like an escaping creature racing away from him. His throat ached, up to the root of the tongue. There was a pang379 in the bad eye. But he had some presence of mind. Gripping the overhead chrome rail, he stooped forward as if to see what street was coming up. Ninety-sixth. In other words, he avoided a gaze that might be held, or any interlocking of looks. He acknowledged nothing, and now began to work his way toward the rear exit, gently urgent, stooping doorward . He reached, found the cord, pulled, made it to the step, squeezed through the door, and stood on the sidewalk holding the umbrella by the fabric380, at the button.
The tachycardia now running itself out, he was able to walk, though not at the usual rate. His stratagem381 was to cross Riverside Drive and enter the first building, as if he lived there. He had beaten the pickpocket to the door. Maybe effrontery would dismiss him as too negligible to pursue. The man did not seem to feel threatened by anyone. Took the slackness, the cowardice382 of the world for granted. Sammler, with effort, opened a big glass black-grilled door and found himself in an empty lobby. Avoiding the elevator, he located the staircase, trudged383 the first flight, and sat down on the landing. A few minutes of rest, and he recovered his oxygen level, although something within felt attenuated384. Simply thinned out. Before returning to the street (there was no rear exit), he took the umbrella inside the coat, hooking it in the armhole and belting it up, more or less securely. He also made an effort to change the shape of his hat, punching it out. He went past West End to Broadway, entering the first hamburger joint385, sitting in the rear, and ordering tea. He drank to the bottom of the heavy cup, to the tannic taste, squeezing the sopping386 bag and asking the counterman for more water, feeling parched387. Through the window his thief did not appear. By now Sammler's greatest need was for his bed. But he knew something about lying low. He had learned in Poland, in the war, in forests, cellars, passageways, cemeteries388. Things he had passed through once which had abolished a certain margin389 or leeway ordinarily taken for granted. Taking for granted that one will not be shot stepping into the street, nor clubbed to death as one stoops to relieve oneself, nor hunted in an alley390 like a rat. This civil margin once removed, Mr. Sammler would never trust the restoration totally. He had had little occasion to practice the arts of hiding and escape in New York. But now, although his bones ached for the bed and his skull was famished391 for the pillow, he sat at the counter with his tea. He could not use buses any more. From now on it was the subway. The subway was an abomination.
But Mr. Sammler had not shaken the pickpocket. The man obviously could move fast. He might have forced his way out of the bus in midblock and sprinted392 back, heavy but swift in homburg and camel's-hair coat. Much more likely, the thief had observed him earlier, had once before shadowed him, had followed him home. Yes, that must have been the case. For when Mr. Sammler entered the lobby of his building the man came up behind him quickly, and not simply behind but pressing him bodily, belly to back. He did not lift his hands to Sammler but pushed. There was no building employee. The doormen, also running the elevator, spent much of their time in the cellar.
"What is the matter? What do you want?" said Mr. Sammler.
He was never to hear the black man's voice. He no more spoke than a puma393 would. What he did was to force Sammler into a corner beside the long blackish carved table, a sort of Renaissance394 piece, a thing which added to the lobby melancholy, by the buckling395 canvas of the old wall, by the red-eyed lights of the brass double fixture340. There the man held Sammler against the wall with his forearm. The umbrella fell to the floor with a sharp crack of the ferrule on the tile. It was ignored. The pickpocket unbuttoned himself. Sammler heard the zipper396 descend188. Then the smoked glasses were removed from Sammler’s face and dropped on the table. He was directed, silently, to look downward. The black man had opened his fly taken out his penis. It was displayed to Sammler with great oval testicles, a large tan-and-purple uncircumcised thing—a tube, a snake; metallic397 hairs bristled at the thick base and the tip curled beyond the supporting, demonstrating hand , suggesting the fleshly mobility398 of an elephant's trunk, though the skin was somewhat iridescent399 rather than thick or rough. Over the forearm and fist that held him Sammler was required to gaze at this organ. No compulsion would have been necessary. He would in any case have looked.
The interval400 was long. The man's expression was not directly menacing but oddly, serenely401 masterful. The thing was shown with mystifying certitude. Lordliness. Then it was returned to the trousers. Quod erat demonstrandum. Sammler was released. The fly was closed, the coat buttoned , the marvelous streaming silk salmon402 necktie smoothed with a powerful hand on the powerful chest. The black eyes with a light of super candor403 moved softly, concluding the session, the lesson, the warning, the encounter, the transmission. He picked up Sammler's dark glasses and returned them to his nose. He then unfolded and mounted his own, circular, of gentian violet gently banded with the lovely Dior gold.
Then he departed. The elevator, with a bump, returning from the cellar opened simultaneously404 with the street door. Retrieving405 the fallen umbrella, lamely406 stooping, Sammler rode up. The doorman offered no small talk. For this sad unsociability one was grateful. Better yet, he didn't bump into Margotte. Best of all, he dropped and stretched on his bed, just as he was, with smarting feet, thin respiration407, pain at the heart, stunned408 mind and—oh!—a temporary blankness of spirit. Like the television screen in the lobby, white and gray, buzzing without image. Between head and pillow, a hard rectangle was interposed, the marbled cardboard of a notebook, sea-green. A slip of paper was attached with Scotch409 tape. Drawing it into light, passing it near the eye, and with lips spelling mutely, bitterly, he forced himself to read the separate letters.
The note was from S (either Shula or Slawa). "Daddy. These lectures on the moon by Doctor V. Govinda Lal are on short loan. They connect with the Memoir." Wells of course, writing on the moon circa 1900. "This is the very latest. Fascinating. Daddy—you have to read it. A must! Eyes or no eyes. And soon, please! as Doctor Lal is guest-lecturing up at Columbia. He needs it back." Frowning terribly, patience, forbearance all gone, he was filled with revulsion at his daughter's single-minded, persistent410, prosecuting411, horrible-comical obsession412 . He drew a long, lung-racking, body-straightening breath.
Then, bending open the notebook, he read, in sepia, in rust-gilt ink, The Future of the Moon. "How long," went the first sentence, "will this earth remain the only home of Man?"
How long? Oh, Lord, you bet! Wasn't it the time—the very hour to go? For every purpose under heaven. A time to gather stones together, a time to cast away stones. Considering the earth itself not as a stone cast but as something to cast oneself from—to be divested413 of. To blow this great blue, white, green planet, or to be blown from it.
点击收听单词发音
1 laymen | |
门外汉,外行人( layman的名词复数 ); 普通教徒(有别于神职人员) | |
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2 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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3 drudgery | |
n.苦工,重活,单调乏味的工作 | |
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4 metaphor | |
n.隐喻,暗喻 | |
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5 multiplication | |
n.增加,增多,倍增;增殖,繁殖;乘法 | |
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6 binding | |
有约束力的,有效的,应遵守的 | |
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7 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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8 ashen | |
adj.灰的 | |
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9 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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10 rigidity | |
adj.钢性,坚硬 | |
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11 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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12 flask | |
n.瓶,火药筒,砂箱 | |
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13 blenching | |
v.(因惊吓而)退缩,惊悸( blench的现在分词 );(使)变白,(使)变苍白 | |
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14 distinguished | |
adj.卓越的,杰出的,著名的 | |
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15 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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16 conspicuousness | |
显著,卓越,突出; 显著性 | |
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17 pickpocket | |
n.扒手;v.扒窃 | |
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18 strap | |
n.皮带,带子;v.用带扣住,束牢;用绷带包扎 | |
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19 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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20 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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21 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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22 effrontery | |
n.厚颜无耻 | |
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23 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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24 bristled | |
adj. 直立的,多刺毛的 动词bristle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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25 constriction | |
压缩; 紧压的感觉; 束紧; 压缩物 | |
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26 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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27 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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28 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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29 hip | |
n.臀部,髋;屋脊 | |
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30 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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31 skeptical | |
adj.怀疑的,多疑的 | |
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32 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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33 prim | |
adj.拘泥形式的,一本正经的;n.循规蹈矩,整洁;adv.循规蹈矩地,整洁地 | |
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34 growl | |
v.(狗等)嗥叫,(炮等)轰鸣;n.嗥叫,轰鸣 | |
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35 erratically | |
adv.不规律地,不定地 | |
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36 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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37 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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38 mash | |
n.麦芽浆,糊状物,土豆泥;v.把…捣成糊状,挑逗,调情 | |
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39 degradation | |
n.降级;低落;退化;陵削;降解;衰变 | |
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40 technological | |
adj.技术的;工艺的 | |
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41 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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42 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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43 humbling | |
adj.令人羞辱的v.使谦恭( humble的现在分词 );轻松打败(尤指强大的对手);低声下气 | |
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44 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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45 woolens | |
毛织品,毛料织物; 毛织品,羊毛织物,毛料衣服( woolen的名词复数 ) | |
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46 tremors | |
震颤( tremor的名词复数 ); 战栗; 震颤声; 大地的轻微震动 | |
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47 tremor | |
n.震动,颤动,战栗,兴奋,地震 | |
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48 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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49 textured | |
adj.手摸时有感觉的, 有织纹的 | |
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50 vivacity | |
n.快活,活泼,精神充沛 | |
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51 beads | |
n.(空心)小珠子( bead的名词复数 );水珠;珠子项链 | |
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52 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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53 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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54 seethed | |
(液体)沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 ); 激动,大怒; 强压怒火; 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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55 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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56 copper | |
n.铜;铜币;铜器;adj.铜(制)的;(紫)铜色的 | |
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57 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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58 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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59 triangular | |
adj.三角(形)的,三者间的 | |
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60 punctures | |
n.(尖物刺成的)小孔( puncture的名词复数 );(尤指)轮胎穿孔;(尤指皮肤上被刺破的)扎孔;刺伤v.在(某物)上穿孔( puncture的第三人称单数 );刺穿(某物);削弱(某人的傲气、信心等);泄某人的气 | |
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61 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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62 corrugated | |
adj.波纹的;缩成皱纹的;波纹面的;波纹状的v.(使某物)起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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63 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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64 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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65 disintegrated | |
v.(使)破裂[分裂,粉碎],(使)崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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67 improper | |
adj.不适当的,不合适的,不正确的,不合礼仪的 | |
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68 justifying | |
证明…有理( justify的现在分词 ); 为…辩护; 对…作出解释; 为…辩解(或辩护) | |
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69 eastward | |
adv.向东;adj.向东的;n.东方,东部 | |
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70 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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71 sewer | |
n.排水沟,下水道 | |
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72 antennas | |
[生] 触角,触须(antenna的复数形式) | |
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73 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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74 immured | |
v.禁闭,监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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76 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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77 forefinger | |
n.食指 | |
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78 folder | |
n.纸夹,文件夹 | |
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79 lipstick | |
n.口红,唇膏 | |
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80 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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81 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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82 spouting | |
n.水落管系统v.(指液体)喷出( spout的现在分词 );滔滔不绝地讲;喋喋不休地说;喷水 | |
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83 lining | |
n.衬里,衬料 | |
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84 glamour | |
n.魔力,魅力;vt.迷住 | |
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85 psychiatrist | |
n.精神病专家;精神病医师 | |
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86 passionate | |
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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87 outlaw | |
n.歹徒,亡命之徒;vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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88 defense | |
n.防御,保卫;[pl.]防务工事;辩护,答辩 | |
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89 craved | |
渴望,热望( crave的过去式 ); 恳求,请求 | |
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90 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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91 conflagration | |
n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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92 explicit | |
adj.详述的,明确的;坦率的;显然的 | |
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93 explicitness | |
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94 taunted | |
嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 ); 嘲弄; 辱骂; 奚落 | |
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95 stump | |
n.残株,烟蒂,讲演台;v.砍断,蹒跚而走 | |
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96 dime | |
n.(指美国、加拿大的钱币)一角 | |
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97 gravy | |
n.肉汁;轻易得来的钱,外快 | |
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98 supple | |
adj.柔软的,易弯的,逢迎的,顺从的,灵活的;vt.使柔软,使柔顺,使顺从;vi.变柔软,变柔顺 | |
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99 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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100 bandannas | |
n.印花大手帕( bandanna的名词复数 ) | |
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101 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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102 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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103 pebble | |
n.卵石,小圆石 | |
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104 shunned | |
v.避开,回避,避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105 garbed | |
v.(尤指某类人穿的特定)服装,衣服,制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106 earring | |
n.耳环,耳饰 | |
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107 landlady | |
n.女房东,女地主 | |
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108 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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109 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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110 pedantry | |
n.迂腐,卖弄学问 | |
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111 aesthetic | |
adj.美学的,审美的,有美感 | |
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112 warfare | |
n.战争(状态);斗争;冲突 | |
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113 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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114 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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115 travail | |
n.阵痛;努力 | |
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116 analyze | |
vt.分析,解析 (=analyse) | |
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117 banal | |
adj.陈腐的,平庸的 | |
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118 banality | |
n.陈腐;平庸;陈词滥调 | |
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119 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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120 Nazis | |
n.(德国的)纳粹党员( Nazi的名词复数 );纳粹主义 | |
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121 liquidate | |
v.偿付,清算,扫除;整理,破产 | |
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122 dismantled | |
拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 ); 拆卸; 废除; 取消 | |
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123 indemnity | |
n.赔偿,赔款,补偿金 | |
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124 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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125 sling | |
vt.扔;悬挂;n.挂带;吊索,吊兜;弹弓 | |
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126 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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127 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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128 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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129 swells | |
增强( swell的第三人称单数 ); 肿胀; (使)凸出; 充满(激情) | |
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130 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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131 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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132 administrators | |
n.管理者( administrator的名词复数 );有管理(或行政)才能的人;(由遗嘱检验法庭指定的)遗产管理人;奉派暂管主教教区的牧师 | |
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133 bureaucrats | |
n.官僚( bureaucrat的名词复数 );官僚主义;官僚主义者;官僚语言 | |
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134 modem | |
n.调制解调器 | |
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135 spoke | |
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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136 tormenting | |
使痛苦的,使苦恼的 | |
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137 virile | |
adj.男性的;有男性生殖力的;有男子气概的;强有力的 | |
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138 thighs | |
n.股,大腿( thigh的名词复数 );食用的鸡(等的)腿 | |
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139 vice | |
n.坏事;恶习;[pl.]台钳,老虎钳;adj.副的 | |
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140 tablecloth | |
n.桌布,台布 | |
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141 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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142 maladroit | |
adj.笨拙的 | |
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143 greasy | |
adj. 多脂的,油脂的 | |
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144 camouflage | |
n./v.掩饰,伪装 | |
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145 trite | |
adj.陈腐的 | |
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146 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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147 conspiracy | |
n.阴谋,密谋,共谋 | |
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148 residue | |
n.残余,剩余,残渣 | |
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149 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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150 machinery | |
n.(总称)机械,机器;机构 | |
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151 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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152 liar | |
n.说谎的人 | |
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153 fanaticism | |
n.狂热,盲信 | |
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154 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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155 systematic | |
adj.有系统的,有计划的,有方法的 | |
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156 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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157 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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158 dynamics | |
n.力学,动力学,动力,原动力;动态 | |
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159 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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160 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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161 unpacked | |
v.从(包裹等)中取出(所装的东西),打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 );拆包;解除…的负担;吐露(心事等) | |
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162 piously | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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163 boundlessly | |
adv.无穷地,无限地 | |
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164 shrubs | |
灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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165 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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166 stapled | |
v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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167 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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168 spiky | |
adj.长而尖的,大钉似的 | |
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169 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
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170 glossy | |
adj.平滑的;有光泽的 | |
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171 blessings | |
n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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172 quills | |
n.(刺猬或豪猪的)刺( quill的名词复数 );羽毛管;翮;纡管 | |
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173 redeemed | |
adj. 可赎回的,可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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174 analytical | |
adj.分析的;用分析法的 | |
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175 clutter | |
n.零乱,杂乱;vt.弄乱,把…弄得杂乱 | |
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176 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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177 scavenger | |
n.以腐尸为食的动物,清扫工 | |
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178 bust | |
vt.打破;vi.爆裂;n.半身像;胸部 | |
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179 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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180 wig | |
n.假发 | |
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181 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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182 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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183 wigs | |
n.假发,法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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184 salvage | |
v.救助,营救,援救;n.救助,营救 | |
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185 coupons | |
n.礼券( coupon的名词复数 );优惠券;订货单;参赛表 | |
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186 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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187 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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188 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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189 substantive | |
adj.表示实在的;本质的、实质性的;独立的;n.实词,实名词;独立存在的实体 | |
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190 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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191 merging | |
合并(分类) | |
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192 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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193 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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194 whitewashed | |
粉饰,美化,掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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195 coconuts | |
n.椰子( coconut的名词复数 );椰肉,椰果 | |
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196 crutch | |
n.T字形拐杖;支持,依靠,精神支柱 | |
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197 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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198 gaucho | |
n. 牧人 | |
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199 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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200 lithe | |
adj.(指人、身体)柔软的,易弯的 | |
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201 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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202 interrogated | |
v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 );审问;(在计算机或其他机器上)查询 | |
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203 bass | |
n.男低音(歌手);低音乐器;低音大提琴 | |
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204 knuckles | |
n.(指人)指关节( knuckle的名词复数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝v.(指人)指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝 | |
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205 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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206 serpentine | |
adj.蜿蜒的,弯曲的 | |
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207 inhuman | |
adj.残忍的,不人道的,无人性的 | |
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208 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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209 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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210 provocation | |
n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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211 bruised | |
[医]青肿的,瘀紫的 | |
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212 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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213 slumping | |
大幅度下降,暴跌( slump的现在分词 ); 沉重或突然地落下[倒下] | |
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214 stink | |
vi.发出恶臭;糟透,招人厌恶;n.恶臭 | |
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215 stinking | |
adj.臭的,烂醉的,讨厌的v.散发出恶臭( stink的现在分词 );发臭味;名声臭;糟透 | |
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216 shaft | |
n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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217 memoir | |
n.[pl.]回忆录,自传;记事录 | |
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218 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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219 snobbery | |
n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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220 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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221 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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222 repel | |
v.击退,抵制,拒绝,排斥 | |
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223 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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224 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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225 cosmetic | |
n.化妆品;adj.化妆用的;装门面的;装饰性的 | |
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226 labyrinthine | |
adj.如迷宫的;复杂的 | |
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227 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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228 emancipator | |
n.释放者;救星 | |
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229 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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230 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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231 puckering | |
v.(使某物)起褶子或皱纹( pucker的现在分词 );小褶纹;小褶皱 | |
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232 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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233 colonization | |
殖民地的开拓,殖民,殖民地化; 移殖 | |
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234 buddies | |
n.密友( buddy的名词复数 );同伴;弟兄;(用于称呼男子,常带怒气)家伙v.(如密友、战友、伙伴、弟兄般)交往( buddy的第三人称单数 );做朋友;亲近(…);伴护艾滋病人 | |
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235 velocity | |
n.速度,速率 | |
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236 stylish | |
adj.流行的,时髦的;漂亮的,气派的 | |
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237 opaque | |
adj.不透光的;不反光的,不传导的;晦涩的 | |
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238 muzzle | |
n.鼻口部;口套;枪(炮)口;vt.使缄默 | |
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239 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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240 stimulus | |
n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
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241 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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242 nude | |
adj.裸体的;n.裸体者,裸体艺术品 | |
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243 minimal | |
adj.尽可能少的,最小的 | |
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244 obesity | |
n.肥胖,肥大 | |
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245 stevedore | |
n.码头工人;v.装载货物 | |
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246 pensioners | |
n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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247 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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248 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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249 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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250 amenities | |
n.令人愉快的事物;礼仪;礼节;便利设施;礼仪( amenity的名词复数 );便利设施;(环境等的)舒适;(性情等的)愉快 | |
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251 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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252 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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253 reprobates | |
n.道德败坏的人,恶棍( reprobate的名词复数 ) | |
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254 emancipated | |
adj.被解放的,不受约束的v.解放某人(尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚)( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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255 suffrage | |
n.投票,选举权,参政权 | |
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256 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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257 feudal | |
adj.封建的,封地的,领地的 | |
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258 libidinous | |
adj.淫荡的 | |
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259 belching | |
n. 喷出,打嗝 动词belch的现在分词形式 | |
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260 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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261 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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262 knights | |
骑士; (中古时代的)武士( knight的名词复数 ); 骑士; 爵士; (国际象棋中)马 | |
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263 barbarians | |
n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 );外国人;粗野的人;无教养的人 | |
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264 fervor | |
n.热诚;热心;炽热 | |
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265 racism | |
n.民族主义;种族歧视(意识) | |
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266 persuasions | |
n.劝说,说服(力)( persuasion的名词复数 );信仰 | |
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267 corrupting | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的现在分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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268 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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269 psychic | |
n.对超自然力敏感的人;adj.有超自然力的 | |
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270 boroughs | |
(尤指大伦敦的)行政区( borough的名词复数 ); 议会中有代表的市镇 | |
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271 fanatics | |
狂热者,入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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272 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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273 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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274 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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275 administrative | |
adj.行政的,管理的 | |
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276 irrationality | |
n. 不合理,无理性 | |
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277 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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278 scarcity | |
n.缺乏,不足,萧条 | |
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279 crimson | |
n./adj.深(绯)红色(的);vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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280 asymmetrical | |
adj.不均匀的,不对称的 | |
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281 scorching | |
adj. 灼热的 | |
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282 yak | |
n.牦牛 | |
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283 baboon | |
n.狒狒 | |
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284 synthetic | |
adj.合成的,人工的;综合的;n.人工制品 | |
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285 fibers | |
光纤( fiber的名词复数 ); (织物的)质地; 纤维,纤维物质 | |
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286 nurture | |
n.养育,照顾,教育;滋养,营养品;vt.养育,给与营养物,教养,扶持 | |
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287 emancipation | |
n.(从束缚、支配下)解放 | |
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288 perverse | |
adj.刚愎的;坚持错误的,行为反常的 | |
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289 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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290 panes | |
窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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291 preservation | |
n.保护,维护,保存,保留,保持 | |
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292 charred | |
v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式);烧焦 | |
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293 transistors | |
晶体管( transistor的名词复数 ); 晶体管收音机,半导体收音机 | |
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294 sipping | |
v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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295 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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296 paradox | |
n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法;自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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297 activists | |
n.(政治活动的)积极分子,活动家( activist的名词复数 ) | |
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298 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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299 meager | |
adj.缺乏的,不足的,瘦的 | |
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300 etymologies | |
n.词源学,词源说明( etymology的名词复数 ) | |
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301 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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302 pruning | |
n.修枝,剪枝,修剪v.修剪(树木等)( prune的现在分词 );精简某事物,除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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303 grooming | |
n. 修饰, 美容,(动物)梳理毛发 | |
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304 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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305 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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306 pimples | |
n.丘疹,粉刺,小脓疱( pimple的名词复数 ) | |
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307 foaming | |
adj.布满泡沫的;发泡 | |
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308 laboring | |
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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309 lint | |
n.线头;绷带用麻布,皮棉 | |
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310 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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311 zoom | |
n.急速上升;v.突然扩大,急速上升 | |
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312 eluded | |
v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
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313 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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314 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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315 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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316 beaver | |
n.海狸,河狸 | |
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317 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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318 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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319 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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320 lateral | |
adj.侧面的,旁边的 | |
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321 premier | |
adj.首要的;n.总理,首相 | |
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322 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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323 boxer | |
n.制箱者,拳击手 | |
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324 seducer | |
n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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325 hustle | |
v.推搡;竭力兜售或获取;催促;n.奔忙(碌) | |
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326 anarchy | |
n.无政府状态;社会秩序混乱,无秩序 | |
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327 breakdown | |
n.垮,衰竭;损坏,故障,倒塌 | |
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328 devotedly | |
专心地; 恩爱地; 忠实地; 一心一意地 | |
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329 misgivings | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕;疑虑,担心,恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 );疑惧 | |
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330 obstructed | |
阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 ); 堵塞; 阻碍; 阻止 | |
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331 incurable | |
adj.不能医治的,不能矫正的,无救的;n.不治的病人,无救的人 | |
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332 Alcoholics | |
n.嗜酒者,酒鬼( alcoholic的名词复数 ) | |
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333 purges | |
清除异己( purge的名词复数 ); 整肃(行动); 清洗; 泻药 | |
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334 mutinous | |
adj.叛变的,反抗的;adv.反抗地,叛变地;n.反抗,叛变 | |
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335 discredited | |
不足信的,不名誉的 | |
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336 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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337 outlawing | |
宣布…为不合法(outlaw的现在分词形式) | |
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338 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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339 fixtures | |
(房屋等的)固定装置( fixture的名词复数 ); 如(浴盆、抽水马桶); 固定在某位置的人或物; (定期定点举行的)体育活动 | |
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340 fixture | |
n.固定设备;预定日期;比赛时间;定期存款 | |
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341 radicals | |
n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 );根基;基本原理;[数学]根数 | |
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342 effete | |
adj.无生产力的,虚弱的 | |
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343 trench | |
n./v.(挖)沟,(挖)战壕 | |
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344 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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345 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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346 excrement | |
n.排泄物,粪便 | |
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347 potency | |
n. 效力,潜能 | |
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348 shrieking | |
v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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349 pelting | |
微不足道的,无价值的,盛怒的 | |
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350 platonic | |
adj.精神的;柏拉图(哲学)的 | |
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351 relatively | |
adv.比较...地,相对地 | |
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352 intensification | |
n.激烈化,增强明暗度;加厚 | |
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353 dented | |
v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 );损害;伤害;挫伤(信心、名誉等) | |
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354 tacking | |
(帆船)抢风行驶,定位焊[铆]紧钉 | |
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355 gardenias | |
n.栀子属植物,栀子花( gardenia的名词复数 ) | |
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356 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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357 shafts | |
n.轴( shaft的名词复数 );(箭、高尔夫球棒等的)杆;通风井;一阵(疼痛、害怕等) | |
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358 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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359 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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360 circumscribed | |
adj.[医]局限的:受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 );划定…范围;限制;限定 | |
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361 neurotic | |
adj.神经病的,神经过敏的;n.神经过敏者,神经病患者 | |
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362 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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363 awakened | |
v.(使)醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 );(使)觉醒;弄醒;(使)意识到 | |
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364 slabs | |
n.厚板,平板,厚片( slab的名词复数 );厚胶片 | |
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365 pregnancy | |
n.怀孕,怀孕期 | |
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366 skyscrapers | |
n.摩天大楼 | |
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367 versus | |
prep.以…为对手,对;与…相比之下 | |
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368 manifestation | |
n.表现形式;表明;现象 | |
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369 entrapped | |
v.使陷入圈套,使入陷阱( entrap的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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370 concealed | |
a.隐藏的,隐蔽的 | |
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371 lashes | |
n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 );鞭子;突然猛烈的一击;急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 );煽动;紧系;怒斥 | |
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372 tugged | |
v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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373 furrowed | |
v.犁田,开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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374 tilted | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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375 goggles | |
n.护目镜 | |
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376 seizure | |
n.没收;占有;抵押 | |
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377 flipped | |
轻弹( flip的过去式和过去分词 ); 按(开关); 快速翻转; 急挥 | |
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378 ironic | |
adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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379 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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380 fabric | |
n.织物,织品,布;构造,结构,组织 | |
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381 stratagem | |
n.诡计,计谋 | |
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382 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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383 trudged | |
vt.& vi.跋涉,吃力地走(trudge的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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384 attenuated | |
v.(使)变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 );(使)变薄;(使)变小;减弱 | |
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385 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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386 sopping | |
adj. 浑身湿透的 动词sop的现在分词形式 | |
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387 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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388 cemeteries | |
n.(非教堂的)墓地,公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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389 margin | |
n.页边空白;差额;余地,余裕;边,边缘 | |
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390 alley | |
n.小巷,胡同;小径,小路 | |
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391 famished | |
adj.饥饿的 | |
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392 sprinted | |
v.短距离疾跑( sprint的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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393 puma | |
美洲豹 | |
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394 renaissance | |
n.复活,复兴,文艺复兴 | |
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395 buckling | |
扣住 | |
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396 zipper | |
n.拉链;v.拉上拉链 | |
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397 metallic | |
adj.金属的;金属制的;含金属的;产金属的;像金属的 | |
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398 mobility | |
n.可动性,变动性,情感不定 | |
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399 iridescent | |
adj.彩虹色的,闪色的 | |
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400 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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401 serenely | |
adv.安详地,宁静地,平静地 | |
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402 salmon | |
n.鲑,大马哈鱼,橙红色的 | |
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403 candor | |
n.坦白,率真 | |
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404 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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405 retrieving | |
n.检索(过程),取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 );恢复;寻回;检索(储存的信息) | |
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406 lamely | |
一瘸一拐地,不完全地 | |
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407 respiration | |
n.呼吸作用;一次呼吸;植物光合作用 | |
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408 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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409 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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410 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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411 prosecuting | |
检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 ); 对某人提起公诉; 继续从事(某事物); 担任控方律师 | |
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412 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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413 divested | |
v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 );脱去(衣服);2。从…取去…;1。(给某人)脱衣服 | |
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