Sammler thought, This is not the way to get out of spatial-temporal prison. Distant is still finite. Finite is still feeling through the veil, examining the naked inner reality with a gloved hand. However, one could see the advantage of getting away from here, building plastic igloos in the vacuum, dwelling23 in quiet colonies, necessarily austere24, drinking the fossil waters, considering basic questions only. No question of it. Shula-Slawa had brought him this time a document worth his attention. She was always culling25 idiotic26 titles on Fourth Avenue, from sidewalk bins27, books with bleached28 spines29 and rain spots—England in the twenties and thirties, Bloomsbury, Downing Street, Clare Sheridan. His shelves were stacked with eight for-a-dollar rubbish bargains hauled in splitting shopping bags. And even the books he himself had bought were largely superfluous30. After you had expended31 great effort on serious writers you found out little you hadn't known already. So many false starts, blind alleys32, postulates33 which decayed before the end of the argument. Even the ablest thinkers groping as they approached their limits, running out of evidence, running out of certainties. But whether they were optimists34 or pessimists35, whether the final vision was dark or bright, it was generally terra cognita to old Sammler. So Dr. Lal had a certain value. He brought news. Of course it should be possible still to follow truth on the inward track, without elaborate preparations, computers, telemetry, all the technological36 expertise37 and investment and complex organization required for visiting Mars, Venus, the moon. Nevertheless, it was perhaps for the same human activities that had shut us up like this to let us out again. The powers that had made the earth too small could free us from confinement38. By the homeopathic principle. Continuing to the end the course of the Puritan revolution which had forced itself onto the material world, given all power to material processes, translated and exhausted39 religious feeling in so doing. Or, in the crushing summary of Max Weber, known by heart to Sammler, "Specialists without spirit, sensualists without heart, this nullity imagines that it has attained40 a level of civilization never before achieved." So conceivably there was no alternative but to push further in the same direction, to wait for a neglected force, left in the rear, to fly forward again and recover ascendancy43. Perhaps by a growing agreement among the best minds, not unlike the Open Conspiracy44 of H. G. Wells. Maybe the old boy (Sammler, himself an old boy, considering this) was right after all.
But he laid aside the sea-textured45 cardboard notebook, the gilt-ink sentences of V. Govinda Lal written in formal Edwardian pedantic46 Hindu English to go back—under mental compulsion, in fact—to the pickpocket47 and the thing he had shown him. What had that been about? It had given a shock. Shocks stimulated48 consciousness. Up to a point, true enough. But what was the object of displaying the genitalia? Quest-ce que cela preuve? Was it a French mathematician49 who had asked this after seeing a tragedy of Racine? To the best of Mr. Sammler’s recollection. Not that he liked playing the old European culture game. He had had that. Still, unsummoned, sentences came to him in this way. At any rate, there was the man's organ, a huge piece of sex flesh, half-tumescent in its pride and shown in its own right, a prominent and separate object intended to communicate authority. As, within the sex ideology51 of these days, it well might. It was a symbol of superlegitimacy or sovereignty. It was a mystery. It was unanswerable. The whole explanation. This is the wherefore, the why. See? Oh, the transcending52, ultimate, and silencing proof. We hold these things, man, to be self-evident. And yet, such sensitive elongations the anteater had, too, uncomplicated by assertions of power, even over ants. But make Nature your God, elevate creatureliness, and you can count on gross results. Maybe you can count on gross results under any circumstances.
Sammler knew a lot about such superstressed creatureliness without even wanting to know. For singular reasons he was much in demand these days, often visited, often consulted and confessed to. Perhaps it was a matter of sunspots or seasons, something barometric53 or even astrological. But there was always someone arriving, knocking at the door. As he was thinking of anteaters, of the fact that he had been spotted54 long ago and shadowed by the black man, there was a knock at his back door.
Who was it? Sammler may have sounded more testy55 than he felt. What he felt was rather that others had more strength for life than he. This caused secret dismay. And there was an illusion involved, for, given the power of the antagonist56, no one had strength enough.
Entering was Walter Bruch, one of the family. Walter, Margotte's cousin, was related also to the Gruners.
Cousin Angela once had taken Sammler to a Rouault exhibition. Beautifully dressed, fragrant58, subtly made up, she led Sammler from room to room until it seemed to him that she was a rolling hoop59 of marvelous gold and gem60 colors and that he, following her, was an old stick from which she needed only an occasional touch. But then, stopping together before a Rouault portrait, both had had the same association: Walter Bruch. It was a broad, low, heavy, ruddy, thick-featured, wool-haired, staring, bake-faced man, looking bold enough but obviously incapable61 of bearing his own feelings. The very man. There must be thousands of such men. But this was our Walter. In a black raincoat, in a cap, gray hair bunched before the ears; his reddish-swarthy teapot cheeks; his big mulberry-tinted lips—well, imagine the Other World; imagine souls there by the barrelful; imagine them sent to incarnation and birth with dominant62 qualities ab initio. In Bruch's case the voice would have been significant from the very first. He was a voice-man, from the soul barrels. He sang in choruses, in temple choirs63. By profession he was a baritone and musicologist. He found old manuscripts and adapted or arranged them for groups performing ancient and baroque music. His own little racket, he said. He sang well. His singing voice was fine, but his speaking voice gruff, rapid, throaty. He gobbled, he quacked64, grunted65, swallowed syllables66.
Approaching when Sammler was so preoccupied67, Bruch, in his idiosyncrasy, got a very special reception. Roughly, this: Things met with in this world are tied to the forms of our perception in space and time and to the forms of our thinking. We see what is before us, the present, the objective. Eternal being makes its temporal appearance in this way. The only way out of captivity68 in the forms, out of confinement in the prison of projections69, the only contact with the eternal, is through freedom. Sammler thought he was Kantian enough to go along with this. And he saw a man like Walter Bruch as wearing out his heart within the forms. This was what he came to Sammler about. This was what his clowning was about, for he was always clowning. Shula-Slawa would tell you how she was run down while absorbed in a Look article by mounted policemen pursuing an escaped deer. Bruch might very suddenly begin to sing like the blind man on Seventy-second Street, pulling along the seeing-eye dog, shaking pennies in his cup: "What a friend we have in Jesus-God bless you, sir." He also enjoyed mock funerals with Latin and music, Monteverdi, Pergolesi, the Mozart C Minor70 Mass; he sang "Et incarnatus est" in falsetto. In his early years as a refugee, he and another German Jew, employed in Macy's warehouse71, used to hold Masses over each other, one lying down in a packing case with dime72-store beads73 wound about the wrists, the other doing the service. Bruch still enjoyed this, loved playing corpse75. Sammler had often enough seen it done. Together with other clown routines. Nazi76 mass meetings at the Sportspalast. Bruch using an empty pot for sound effects, holding it over his mouth to get the echo, ranting77 like Hitler and interrupting himself to cry "Sieg Heil." Sammler never enjoyed this fun. It led, soon, to Bruch's Buchenwald reminiscences. All that dreadful, comical, inconsequent senseless stuff. How, suddenly , in 1937, saucepans were offered to the prisoners for sale. Hundreds of thousands, new, from the factory. Why? Bruch bought as many pans as he could. What for? Prisoners tried to sell saucepans to one another. And then a man fell into the latrine trench78. No one was allowed to help him, and he was drowned there while the other prisoners were squatting79 helpless on the planks80. Yes, suffocated81 in the feces!
"Very well, Walter, very well!" Sammler severely82 would say.
"Yes, I know, I wasn't even there for the worst part, Uncle Sammler. And you were in the middle of the whole war. But I was sitting there with diarrhea and pain. My guts83! Bare arschloch."
"Very well, Walter, don't repeat so much."
Unfortunately, Bruch was obliged to repeat, and Sammler was sorry. He was annoyed and he was sorry. And with Walter, as with so many others, it was always, it was ever and again, it was still, interminably, the sex business. Bruch fell in love with women's arms. They had to be youngish, plump women. Dark as a rule. Often they were Puerto Ricans. And in the summer, above all in the summer, without coats, when women's arms were exposed. He saw them in the subway. He went along to Spanish Harlem. He pressed himself against a metal rod. Way up in Harlem, he was the only white passenger. And the whole thing—the adoration84, the disgrace, the danger of swooning when he came! Here, telling this, he began to finger the hairy base of that thick throat of his. Clinical! At the same time, as a rule, he was having a highly idealistic and refined relationship with some lady. Classical! Capable of sympathy, of sacrifice, of love. Even of fidelity86, in his own Cynara-Dowson fashion.
At present be was, as be said, "hung up" on the arms of a cashier in the drugstore.
"I go as often as I can."
"Ah, yes," said Sammler.
"It is madness. I have my attaché case under my arm. Very strong. First-class leather. I paid for it thirty-eight fifty at Wilt87 Luggage on Fifth Avenue. You see?"
"I get the picture."
"I buy something for a quarter, a dime. Gum. A package of Sight-Savers. I give a large bill a ten, even a twenty. I go in the bank and get fresh money."
"I understand."
"Uncle Sammler, you have no idea what it is for me in that round arm. So dark! So heavy!
"No, I probably do not."
"I put the attaché case against the counter, and I press myself. While she is making the change, I press."
"All right, Walter, spare me the rest."
"Uncle Sammler, forgive me. What can I do? For me it is the only way."
"Well, that is your business. Why tell me?"
"There is a reason. Why shouldn't I tell you? There must be a reason. Please don't stop me. Be kind."
"You should stop yourself."
"I can't."
"Are you sure?"
"I press. I have a climax88. I wet myself."
Sammler raised his voice. "Can't you leave out anything?"
"Uncle Sammler, what shall I do? I am over sixty years old."
Then Bruch raised the backs of his thick short hands to his eyes. His flat nose dilated89, his mouth open, he was spurting90 tears and, apelike, twisting his shoulders, his trunk. And with those touching91 gaps between his teeth. And when he wept he was not gruff. You heard the musician then.
"My whole life has been like that."
"I'm sorry, Walter."
"I am hooked."
"Well, you haven't harmed anybody. And really people take these things much less seriously than they once did. Couldn't you concentrate more on other interests, Walter? Besides, your plight92 is so similar to other people's, you are so contemporary, Walter, that it should do something for you. Isn't it a comfort that there is no more isolated93 Victorian sex suffering? Everybody seems to have these vices3, and tells the whole world about them. By now you are even somewhat old-fashioned. Yes, you have an old nineteenth-century Krafft-Ebing trouble."
But Sammler stopped himself, disapproving94 of the light tone that was creeping into his words of comfort. But as to the past he meant what he said. The sexual perplexities of a man like Bruch originated in the repressions95 of another time, in images of woman and mother which were disappearing. He himself, born in the old century and in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, could discern these changes. But it also struck him as unfair to lie in bed making such observations. However, the old, the original Cracow Sammler was never especially kind. He was an only son spoiled by a mother who had herself been a spoiled daughter. An amusing recollection: When Sammler was a little boy he had covered his mouth, when he coughed, with the servant's hand, to avoid getting germs on his own hand. A family joke. The servant, grinning, red-faced, kindly96, straw-haired, gummy (odd lumps in her gums) Wadja, had allowed little Sammler to borrow the hand. Then, when he was older, his mother herself, not Wadja, used to bring lean, nervous young Sammler his chocolate and croissants as he sat in his room reading Trollope and Bagehot, making an "Englishman" of himself. He and his mother had had a reputation for eccentricity97, irritability98 in those days. Not compassionate99 people. Not easily pleased. Haughty101. Of course all this, for Sammler, had changed considerably102 in the last thirty years. But then Walter Bruch with his old urchin103 knuckles104 in his eyes sat in his room and sobbed105, having told on himself. And when was there nothing to tell? There was always something. Bruch told how he bought himself toys.At F. A. O. Schwarz or in antique shops he bought wind-up monkeys who combed their hair in a mirror, who banged cymbals106 and danced jigs107, in little green jackets or red caps. Nigger minstrels had fallen in price. He played in his room with the toys, alone. He also sent denunciatory, insulting letters to musicians. Then he came and confessed and wept. He didn't weep for display. He wept because he felt he had lost his life. Would it have been possible to tell him that he hadn't?
It was easier with a man like Bruch to transfer to broad reflections, to make comparisons, to think of history and themes of general interest. For instance, in the same line of sexual neurosis Bruch was exceeded by individuals like Freud's Rat Man, with his delirium109 of rats gnawing110 into the anus, persuaded that the genital also was ratlike, or that he himself was some sort of rat. By comparison an individual like Bruch had a light case of fetishism. If you had the comparative or historical outlook you would want only the most noteworthy, smashing instances. When you had those you could drop, junk and forget the rest, which were only a burden or excess baggage. If you considered what the historical memory of mankind would retain, it would not bother to retain the Bruchs; nor, come to that, the Sammlers. Sammler didn't much mind his oblivion, not with such as would do the remembering, anyway. He thought he had found out the misanthropy of the whole idea of the "most memorable111." It was certainly possible that the historical outlook made it easier to dismiss the majority of instances. In other words, to jettison112 most of us. But here was Walter Bruch, who had come to his mom because he felt he could talk to him. And probably Walter, when his crying stopped, would be hurt by the Krafft-Ebing reference, by the assertion that his deviation113 was not too unusual. Nothing seemed to hurt quite so much as being ravaged114 by a vice4 that was not a top vice. And this brought to mind Kierkegaards comical account of people traveling around the world to see rivers and mountains, new stars, birds of rare plumage, queerly deformed115 fishes, ridiculous breeds of men—tourists abandoning themselves to the bestial116 stupor117 which gapes118 at existence and thinks it has seen something. This could not interest Kierkegaard. He was looking for the Knight119 of Faith, the real prodigy120. That real prodigy, having set its relations with the infinite, was entirely121 at home in the finite. Able to carry the jewel of faith, making the motions of the infinite, and as a result needing nothing but the finite and the usual. Whereas others sought the extraordinary in the world. Or wished to be what was gaped122 at. They themselves wanted to be the birds of rare plumage, the queerly deformed fishes, the ridiculous breeds of men. Only Mr. Sammler, extended, a long old body with brickish cheekbones and the often electrified123 back hair riding the back of the head—only Mr. Sammler was worried. He was concerned about the test of crime which the Knight of Faith had to meet. Should the Knight of Faith have the strength to break humanly appointed laws in obedience124 to God? Oh, yes, of course! But maybe Sammler knew things about murder which might make the choices just a little more difficult. He thought often what a tremendous appeal crime had made to the children of bourgeois125 civilization. Whether as revolutionists, as supermen, as saints, Knights126 of Faith, even the best teased and tested themselves with thoughts of knife or gun. Lawless. Raskolnikovs. Ah yes . . .
"Walter, I'm sorry—sorry to see you suffer."
The odd things occurring in Sammler's room, with its papers, books, humidor, sink, electric coil, Pyrex flask127, documents.
"I’ll pray for you, Walter." Bruch stopped crying, clearly startled.
"What do you mean, Uncle Sammler? You pray?"
The baritone music left his voice, and it was gruff again, and he gruffly gobbled his words.
"Uncle Sammler, I have my arms. You have prayers?" He pave a belly128 laugh. He laughed and snorted, swinging his trunk comically back and forth129, holding both his sides, blindly showing both his nostrils130. He was not, however, mocking Sammler. Not really. One had to learn to distinguish. To distinguish and distinguish and distinguish. It was distinguishing, not explanation, that mattered. Explanation was for the mental masses. Adult education. The upswing of general consciousness. A mental level comparable with, say, that of the economic level of the proletariat in 1848. But distinguishing? A higher activity.
"I will pray for you," said Sammler.
After this the conversation sank for a while into mere131 sociability132. Sammler had to look at letters Bruch had sent to the Post, Newsday, the Times, tangling133 with their music reviewers. This again was the contentious134, ludicrous side of things, the thick-smeared135, self-conscious, performing loutish136 Bruch. Just when Sammler wanted to rest. To recover a little. To put himself in order. And Bruch's rollicking, guttural Dada routine was contagious137. Go, Walter, go away so that I can pray for you, Sammler felt like saying, falling into Bruch’s style. But then Bruch asked, "And when are you expecting your son-in-law?"
"Who? Eisen?"
"Yes, he's coming. He's maybe here already."
"I didn't know that. He's threatened to come, many times, to set up as an artist in New York. He doesn't want Shula at all."
"I know that," said Bruch. "And she is so afraid of him."
"Certainly it would not work. He is too violent. Yes, she will be frightened. She will also feel flattered, imagining that he has come to win her back. But he's not thinking of wives and marriage. He wants to show his paintings on Madison Avenue."
"He thinks he is that good?"
"He learned printing and engraving138 in Haifa and I was told in his shop that he was a dependable worker. But then he discovered Art, and began to paint in his spare time and make etchings. Then he sent each member of the family a portrait of himself copied from photographs. Did you see any? They were appalling139, Walter. An insane mind and a frightening soul made those paintings. I don't know how he did it, but by using color he robbed every subject of color. Everybody looked like a corpse, with black lips and red eyes, with faces a kind of leftover141 cooked-liver green. At the same time it was like a little schoolgirl learning to draw pretty people, with cupid mouths and long eyelashes. Frankly143, I was stunned144 when I saw myself like a kewpie doll from the catacombs. In that shiny varnish145 he uses, I looked really done for. It was as if one death was not enough for me, but I had to have a double death. Well, let him come. His crazy intuition about New York may be right. He is a cheerful maniac146. Now so many highbrows have discovered that madness is higher knowledge. If he painted Lyndon Johnson, General Westmoreland, Rusk, Nixon, or Mr. Laird in that style he might become a celebrity147 of the art world. Power and money of course do drive people crazy. So why shouldn't people also gain power and wealth through being crazy? They should go together."
Sammler had taken off his shoes, and now the long frail148 feet in brown stockings felt cold and he laid over them the blanket with its frayed149 silk binding150. Bruch took this to mean that he was going to sleep. Or was it that the conversation had taken a turn that didn't interest Sammler? The singer said good-by.
When Bruch bustled151 out—black coat, short legs, sack-wide bottom, cap tight, bicycle clips at the bottoms of his trousers (the suicidal challenge of cycling in Manhattan)—Sammler was again thinking of the pickpocket, the pressure of his body, the lobby and the hernial canvas walls, the two pairs of dark glasses, the lizard-thick curving tube in the hand, dusty stale pinkish chocolate color and strongly suggesting the infant it was there to beget152. Ugly, odious153; laughable, but nevertheless important. And Mr. Sammler himself (one of those mental invasions there was no longer any point in attempting to withstand) was accustomed to put his own very different emphasis on things. Of course he and the pickpocket were different. Everything was different. Their mental, characterological, spiritual profiles were miles apart. In the past, Mr. Sammler had thought that in this same biological respect he was comely154 enough, in his own Jewish way. It had never greatly mattered, and mattered less than ever now, in the seventies. But a sexual madness was overwhelming the Western world. Sammler now even vaguely155 recalled hearing that a President of the United States was supposed to have shown himself in a similar way to the representatives of the press (asking the ladies to leave), and demanding to know whether a man so well hung could not be trusted to lead his country. The story was apocryphal156, naturally, but it was not a flat impossibility, given the President, and what counted was that it should spring up and circulate so widely that it reached even the Sammlers in their West Side bedrooms. Take as another instance the last exhibit of Picasso. Angela had brought him to the opening at the Museum of Modern Art. It was in the strictly157 sexual sense also an exhibition. Old Picasso was wildly obsessed158 by sexual fissures159, by phalluses. In the frantic160 and funny pain of his farewell, creating organs by the thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. Lingam and Yoni. Sammler thought it might be enlightening to recall the Sanskrit words. Bring in a little perspective. But it didn't really do much for such a troubled theme. And it was very troubled. He fetched back, for example, a statement by Angela Gruner, blurted161 out after several drinks when she was laughing, gay, and evidently feeling free (to the point of brutality) with old Uncle Sammler. "A Jew brain, a black cock, a Nordic beauty," she had said, "is what a woman wants." Putting together the ideal man. Well, after all, she had charge accounts at the finest shops in New York, and access to the best of everything in the world. If Pucci didn't have what she wanted, she ordered from Hermès. All that money could buy, luxury could offer, personal beauty could bear upon the person, or that sexual sophistication could reciprocate163. If she could find the ideal male, her divine synthesis—well, she was sure she could make it worth his while. The best was not too good for her. There seemed to be no question about that. At moments like this Mr. Sammler was more than ever pleasantly haunted by moon-visions. Artemis—lunar chastity. On the moon people would have to work hard simply to stay alive, to breathe. They would have to keep a strict watch over the gauges164 of all the devices. Conditions altogether different. Austere technicians—almost a priesthood.
If it wasn't Bruch forcing his way in with confessions165, if it wasn't Margotte (for she was now beginning to think about affairs of the heart after three years of decent widowhood—more discussion than prospects166, surely: discussion, earnest examination ad infinitum), if it wasn't Feffer with his indiscriminate bedroom adventures, it was Angela who came to confide167. If confidence was the word for it. Communicating chaos168. Getting to be oppressive. Especially since her father had recently been unwell. At this moment actually in the hospital. Sammler had ideas about this chaos—he had his own view of everything, an intensely peculiar169 one, but what else was there to go by? Of course he made allowances for error. He was a European, and these were American phenomena170. Europeans often misunderstood America comically. He could remember that many refugees had packed their bags to take off for Mexico or Japan after Stevenson's first defeat, certain that Ike would bring a military dictatorship. Certain European importations were remarkably171 successful in the United States-psychoanalysis, existentialism. Both related to the sexual revolution.
In any case, a mass of sadness had been waiting for free, lovely, rich, ever-so-slightly coarse Angela Gruner, and she was now flying under thick clouds. For one thing she was having trouble with Wharton Horricker. She was fond of, she liked, probably she loved, Wharton Horricker. In the last two years Sammler had heard of few other men. Fidelity, strict and literal, was not Angela's dish, but she had an old-fashioned need for Horricker. He was from Madison Avenue, some sort of market-research expert and statistical172 wizard. He was younger than Angela. A physical culturist (tennis, weight lifting). Tall, from California, marvelous teeth. There was gymnastic apparatus in his house. Angela described the slanted175 board with footstraps for sit-ups, the steel bar in the doorway177 for chinning. And the chrome-metal, cold marble furniture, the leather straps176 and British folding officers' chairs, the op and pop objets d'art, the indirect lighting178, and the prevalence of mirrors. Horricker was handsome. Sammler agreed. Cheerful, somewhat unformed as yet, Horricker was perhaps intended by nature to be rascally179 (what was all that muscle for? Health? Not banditry?). "And what a dresser!" said Angela with husky, comedienne's delight. With long California legs, small hips180, crisp long hair with a darling curl at the back, he was a mod dandy. Extremely critical of other people's clothes. Even Angela had to submit to West Point inspection182. Once when he thought her improperly183 dressed, he abandoned her on the street. He crossed to the other side. Custom-made shirts, shoes, sweaters were continually arriving from London and Milan. You could play sacred music while he had his hair cut (no, "styledl"), said Angela. He went to a Greek on East Fifty-sixth Street. Yes, Sammler knew a good deal about Wharton Horricker. His health foods. Horricker had even brought him bottles of yeast184 powder. Sammler found the yeast beneficial. Then there was the matter of neckties. Horricker's collection of beautiful neckties! By now the comparison with his own black pickpocket was unavoidable. This cult50 of masculine elegance185 must be thought about. Something important, still nebulous, about Solomon in all his glory versus186 the lilies of the field. We would see. Still, despite his self-pampering fastidiousness, his intolerance of badly clothed people, despite his dressy third-generation-Jew name, Wharton received serious consideration from Sammler. He sympathized with him, understanding the misleading and corrupting188 power of Angela, insidious190 without intending to be. What she intended to be was gay, pleasure-giving, exuberant191, free, beautiful, healthy. As young Americans (the Pepsi generation, wasn't it?) saw the thing. And she told old Uncle Sammler everything -the honor of her confidences belonged to him. Why? Oh, she thought he was the most understanding, the most European-worldly-wise-nonprovincial-mentally-diversified-intelligent-young-in-heart of old refugees, and really interested in the new phenomena. To deserve this judgment192 had he perhaps extended himself a little? Hadn't he lent himself, played the game, acted the ripe old refugee? If so, he was offended with himself. And, yes, it was so. If he heard things he didn't want to hear, there was a parallel—on the bus he had seen things he didn't want to see. But hadn't he gone a dozen times to Columbus Circle to look for the black thief?
Without restraint, in direct terms, Angela described events to her uncle. Coming into his room, taking off the coat, the head scarf, shaking free the hair with its dyed streaks194 like raccoon fur, smelling of Arabian musk195, an odor which clung afterward196 to the poor fabrics197, seat cushions, to the coverlet, even to the curtains, as stubborn as walnut198 stain on one's fingers, she sat down in white textured stockings—bas de poule as the French called them. Cheeks bursting with color, eyes dark sexual blue, a white vital heat in the flesh of the throat, she carried a great statement to males, the powerful message of gender200. In this day and age people felt obliged to temper all such powerful messages with comedy, and she provided that, too. In America certain forms of success required an element of parody201, self-mockery, a satire202 on the-thing-itself. Mae West had this. Senator Dirksen had it. One caught glimpses of the strange mind-revenge on the alleged203 thing-itself in Angela. She crossed her legs on a chair too fragile to accommodate her thighs204, too straight for her hips. She opened her purse for a cigarette, and Sammler offered a light. She loved his manners. The smoke came from her nose, and she looked at him, when she was in good form, cheerfully, with a touch of slyness. The beautiful maiden205. He was the old hermit206. When she became hearty207 with him and laughed, she turned out to have a big mouth, and a large tongue. Inside the elegant woman he saw a coarse one. The lips were red, the tongue was often pale. That tongue, a woman's tongue—evidently it played an astonishing part in her free, luxurious208 life.
To her first meeting with Wharton Horricker, she had come running uptown from East Village. Something she couldn't get out of. She had used no grass that night, only whisky, she said. Grass didn't turn her on as she best liked turning on. Four telephone calls she made to Wharton from a crowded joint209. He said he had to get his sleep; it was after 1 a.m.; he was a crank about sleep, health. Finally she burst in on him with a big kiss. She cried, "We're going to fuck all night!" But first she said she had to have a bath. Because she had been longing210 all evening for him. "Oh, a woman is a skunk211. So many odors, Uncle," she said. Taking off everything, but overlooking the tights she fell into the tub. Wharton was astonished and sat on the commode in his dressing212 gown while she, so ruddy with whisky, soaped her breasts. Sammler knew quite well how the breasts must look. Little, after all, was concealed213 by her low-cut dresses. So she soaped and rinsed214, and the wet tights with joyful215 difficulty were removed, and she was let to the bed by the hand. Or did the leading. For Horricker walked behind her and kissed her on the neck and shoulders. She cried "Oh!" and was mounted.
Mr. Sammler was supposed to listen benevolently216 to all kinds of intimate reports. Curiously217 enough, though with more thought and decency218, H. G. Wells had also talked to him about sexual passion. From such a superior individual one might have expected views more in line with those of Sophocles in old age. "Most gladly have I escaped the thing of which you speak; I feel as if I had escaped from the hands of a mad and furious master." No such thing. As Sammler remembered it, Wells in his seventies was still obsessed with girls. He had powerful arguments for a total revision of sexual attitudes to accord with the increased life span. When the average individual died at thirty, toil-ruined, ill-fed, sickly mankind was sexually finished before the third decade. Romeo and Juliet were adolescents. But as the civilized219 life expectancy220 approaches seventy, the old standards of brutal162 brevity, early exhaustion221, and doom222 must be set aside. Rancor223, and gradually even rage, came over Wells at a certain point as he talked about the powers of the brain, its expansive limits, the ability in old age to take a fresh interest in new events diminishing. Utopian, he didn't even imagine that the hoped-for future would bring excess, pornography, sexual abnormality. Rather, as the old filth224 and gloomy sickness were cleared away, there would emerge a larger, stronger, older, brainier, better-nourished, better-oxygenated, more vital human type, able to eat and drink sanely225, perfectly226 autonomous227 and well regulated in desires, going nude228 while attending tranquilly229 to duties, performing his fascinating and useful mental work. Yes, gradually the long shudder230 of mankind at the swift transitoriness of mortal beauty, pleasure, would cease, to be replaced by the wisdom born of prolongation.
Oh, wrinkled faces, gray beards, eyes purging231 thick amber232 or gum, a plentiful233 lack of wit together with weak hams, out of the air, crabwise, into the grave: Hamlet had his own view of it. And Sammler on many occasions, listening to Angela as he lay in bed, considering two sets of problems (at least) with two different looking eyes, a tense stitch between rib173 and hip85 making him draw up one leg for an ease he did not attain41, had a slight look of rebuke234 as well as the look of receptivity. His daily tablespoon of nutritional235 yeast, a primary product from natural sugars, dissolved and shaken to a pink foam236 in fruit juice, kept him in fresh color. One result, possibly, of longevity237 was divine entertainment. You could appreciate God's entertainment from the formation of patterns which needed time for their proper development. Sammler had known Angela's grandparents. They had been Orthodox. This gave a queer edge to his acquaintance with her paganism. Somewhere he doubted the fitness of these Jews for this erotic Roman voodoo primitivism. He questioned whether release from long Jewish mental discipline, hereditary238 training in lawful239 control, was obtainable upon individual application. Although claims for erotic leadership had also been made by modern Jewish spiritual and mental doctors, Sammler had his doubts.
Accept and grant that happiness is to do what most other people do. Then you must incarnate240 what others incarnate. If prejudices, prejudice. If rage, then rage. If sex, then sex. But don't contradict your time. Just don't contradict it, that's all. Unless you happened to be a Sammler and felt that the place of honor was outside. However, what was achieved by remoteness, by being simply a vestige241, a visiting consciousness which happened to reside in a West Side bedroom, did not entitle one to the outside honors. Moreover, inside was so roomy and took in so many people that if you were in the West Nineties, if you were in fact here, you were an American. And the charm, the ebullient242 glamour243, the almost unbearable244 agitation245 that came from being able to describe oneself as a twentieth-century American was available to all. To everyone who had eyes to read the papers or watch the television, to everyone who shared the collective ecstasies246 of news, crisis, power. To each according to his excitability. But perhaps it was an even deeper thing. Humankind watched and described itself in the very turns of its own destiny. Itself the subject, living or drowning in night, itself the object, seen surviving or succumbing247, and feeling in itself the fits of strength and the lapses248 of paralysis—mankind's own passion simultaneously249 being mankind's great spectacle, a thing of deep and strange participation250, on all levels, from melodrama251 and mere noise down into the deepest layers of the soul and into the subtlest silences, where undiscovered knowledge is. This sort of experience, in Mr. Sammler's judgment, might bring to some people fascinating opportunities for the mind and the soul, but a man would have to be unusually intelligent to begin with, and in addition unusually nimble and discerning. He didn't even think that he himself qualified252 by his own standard. Because of the high rate of speed, decades, centuries, epochs condensing into months, weeks, days, even sentences. So that to keep up, you had to run, sprint253, waft254, fly over shimmering255 waters , you had to be able to see what was dropping out of human life and what was staying in. You could not be an old-fashioned sitting sage199. You must train yourself. You had to be strong enough not to be terrified by local effects of metamorphosis, to live with disintegration256, with crazy streets, filthy257 nightmares, monstrosities come to life, addicts258 , drunkards, and perverts259 celebrating their despair openly in midtown. You had to be able to bear the tangles260 of the soul, the sight of cruel dissolution. You had to be patient with the stupidities of power, with the fraudulence of business. Daily at five or six a.m. Mr. Sammler woke up in Manhattan and tried to get a handle on the situation. He didn't think he could. Nor, if he could, would he be able to convince or convert anyone. He could leave the handle to Shula in his will. She could disclose possession to Rabbi Ipsheimer. She could whisper to Father Robles in the confessional that she had it. What could the main thing be? Consciousness and its pains? The flight from consciousness into the primitive261? Liberty? Privilege? Demons262? The expulsion of those demons and spirits from the air, where they had always been, by enlightenment and rationalism? And mankind had never lived without its possessing demons and had to have them back! Oh, what a wretched, itching263, bleeding, needing, idiot, genius of a creature we were dealing264 with here! And how queerly it was playing (he, she) with all the strange properties of existence, with all varieties of possibility, with antics of all types, with the soul of the world, with death. Could it be condensed into a statement or two? Humankind could not endure futurelessness.
As of now, death was the sole visible future. A family, a circle of friends, a team of the living got things going, and then death appeared and no one was prepared to acknowledge death. Dr. Gruner, it was given out, had had minor surgery, a little operation. Was it so? An artery265 to the brain, the carotid, had begun to leak through weak walls. Sammler had been slow, reluctant to grasp what this might mean. He had perhaps a practical reason for such reluctance266. Since 1947, he and Shula had been Dr. Gruner's dependents. He paid their rents, invented work for Shula, supplemented the Social Security and German indemnity267 checks. He was generous. Of course he was rich, but the rich were usually mean. Not able to separate themselves from the practices that had made the money: infighting, habitual268 fraud, mad agility269 in compound deceit, the strange conventions of legitimate270 swindling. To old Sammler, considering, with smallish ruddy face, the filmed bubble of the eye, and slightly cat-whiskered—a meditative271 island on the island of Manhattan—it was plain that the rich men he knew were winners in struggles of criminality, of permissible272 criminality. In other words, triumphant273 in forms of deceit and hardness of heart considered by the political order as a whole to be productive; kinds of cheating or thieving or (at best) wastefulness274 which on the whole caused the gross national product to increase. Wait a minute, though: Sammler denied himself the privilege of the high-principled intellectual who must always be applying the purest standards and thumping275 the rest of his species on the head. When he tried to imagine a just social order, he could not do it. A noncorrupt society? He could not do that either. There were no revolutions that he could remember which had not been made for justice, freedom, and pure goodness. Their last state was always more nihilistic than the first. So if Dr. Gruner had been corrupt189, one should glance also at the other rich, to see what hearts they had. No question. Dr. Gruner, who had made a great deal of money as a gynecologist and even more, later, in real estate, was on the whole kindly and had a lot of family feeling, far more than Sammler, who in his youth had taken the opposite line, the modern one of Marx-Engels-private-property-the-origins-of-the-state-and-the-family.
Sammler was only six or seven years older than Gruner, his nephew by an amusing technicality. Sammler was the child of a second marriage, born when his father was sixty. (Evidently Sammler's own father had been sexually enterprising.) And Dr. Gruner had longed for a European uncle. He was elaborately deferential276, positively277 Chinese in observing old forms. He had left the old country at the age of ten, he was sentimental278 about Cracow, and wanted to reminisce about grandparents, aunts, cousins with whom Sammler had never had much to do. He couldn't easily explain that these were people from whom he had thought he must free himself and because of whom he became so absurdly British. But Dr. Gruner himself after fifty years was still something of an immigrant. In spite of the grand Westchester house and the Rolls Royce glittering like a silver tureen, covering his courteous279 Jewish baldness. Dr. Gruner's wrinkles were mild. They expressed patience and sometimes even delight. He had large, noble lips. Irony280 and pessimism281 were also there. It was a pleasant, pleasantly illuminated282 face.
And Sammler, an uncle through his half-sister—an uncle really by courtesy, by Gruner's pious283 antiquarian wish—was seen (tall, elderly, foreign) as the last of a marvelous old generation. Mama's own brother, Uncle Artur, with big pale tufts over the eyes, with thin wrinkles augustly flowing under the big-brimmed perhaps romantically British hat. Sammler understood from his "nephew's" face with the grand smile and conspicuous284 ears that his historical significance for Gruner was considerable. Also his experiences were respected. The war. Holocaust285. Suffering.
Because of his high color, Gruner always looked healthy to Sammler. But the doctor one day said, "Hypertension, Uncle, not health."
"Maybe you shouldn't play cards."
Twice a week, at his club, in very long sessions, Gruner played gin rummy or canasta for high stakes. So Angela said, and she was pleased with her father's vice. She had hereditary vices to point to—she and her younger brother, Wallace. Wallace was a born plunger. He had already gone through his first fifty thousand, investing with a Mafia group in Las Vegas. Or perhaps they were only would-be Mafia, for they hadn't made it. Dr. Gruner himself had grown up in a hoodlum neighborhood and sometimes dropped into the hoodlum manner, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. He was a widower286. His wife had been a German Jewess, above him socially, so she thought. Her family had been 1848 pioneers. Gruner was an Ostjude immigrant. Her job was to refine him, to help him build his practice. The late Mrs. Gruner had been decent, proper, with thin legs, bouffant287 hair sprayed stiffly, and Peck & Peck outfits288, geometrically correct to the millimeter. Gruner had believed in the social superiority of his wife.
"It's not the rummy that aggravates289 my blood pressure. If there were no cards, there would still be the stock market, and if there weren't the stock market, there would be the condominium in Florida, there would be the suit with the insurance company, or there would still be Wallace. There would be Angela."
Tempering his great glowing affection, mixing fatherly love with curses, Gruner would mutter "Bitch" when his daughter approached with all her flesh in motion—thighs, hips, bosom290 displayed with a certain fake innocence291. Presumably maddening men and infuriating women. Under his breath, Gruner said "Cow!" or "Sloppy292 cunt!" Still, he had settled money on her so that she could live handsomely on the income. Millions of corrupt ladies, Sammler saw, had fortunes to live on. Foolish creatures, or worse, squandering293 the wealth of the land. Gruner would never have been able to bear the details that Sammler heard from Angela. She was always warning him, "Daddy would die if he knew this." Sammler did not agree; Elya probably knew plenty. The truth was naturally known by all concerned . It was all in Angela's calves294, in the cut of her blouses, in the motions of her finger tips, the musical brass295 of her whispers.
Dr. Gruner had taken to saying, "Oh, yes, I know that broad. I know my Angela. And Wallace!"
Sammler didn't at first understand what an aneurysm meant; he heard from Angela that Gruner was in the hospital for throat surgery. The day after the pickpocket had cornered him, he went to the East Side to visit Gruner. He found him with a bandaged neck.
"Well, Uncle Sammler?"
"Elya—how are you? You look all right." And the old man, reaching beneath himself with a long arm, smoothing the underside of the trench coat, bending thin legs, sat down. Between the tips of cracked wrinkled black shoes he set the tip of his umbrella and leaned with both palms on the curved handle, stooping toward the bed with Polish-Oxonian politeness. Meticulously296, the sickroom caller. Finely, intricately wrinkled, the left side of his face was like the contour map of difficult terrain297.
Dr. Gruner sat straight, unsmiling. His expression after a lifetime of good-humored appearance was still mainly pleasant. This was not pertinent298 at present, merely habitual.
"I am in the middle of something."
"The surgery was successful?"
"There is a gimmick299 in my throat, Uncle."
"For what?"
"To regulate the flow of blood in the artery—the carotid."
"Is that so? Is it a valve or something?"
"More or less."
"It's supposed to reduce the pressure?"
"Yes, that's the idea."
"Yes. Well, it seems to be working. You look as usual. Normal, Elya."
Evidently there was something which Dr. Gruner had no intention of letting out. His expression was neither dire42 nor grim. Instead of hardness Mr. Sammler thought he could observe a curious kind of tight lightness. The doctor in the hospital, in pajamas300, was a good patient. He said to the nurses, "This is my uncle. Tell him what kind of patient I am."
"Oh, the doctor is a wonderful patient."
Gruner had always insisted on having affectionate endorsements301, approbation302, the good will of all who drew near.
"I am completely in the surgeon's hands. I do exactly as he says."
"He is a good doctor?"
"Oh, yes. He's a hillbilly. A Georgia red-neck. He was a football star in college. I remember reading about him in the papers. He played for Georgia Tech. But he's professionally very able; and I take orders from him, and I never discuss the case."
"So you're satisfied completely with him?"
"Yesterday the screw was too tight."
"What did that do?"
"Well, my speech got thick. I lost some coordination. You know the brain needs its blood supply. So they had to loosen me up again."
"But you are better today?"
"Oh, yes."
The mail was brought, and Dr. Gruner asked Uncle Sammler to read a few items from the Market Letter. Sammler lifted the paper to his right eye, concentrating window light upon it. "The U.S. Justice Department will file suit to force Ling-Temco-Vought to divest303 its holdings of Jones and Laughlin Steel. Moving against the huge conglomerate304 . . ."
"Those conglomerates305 are soaking up all the business in the country. One of them, I understand, has acquired all the funeral parlors306 in New York. I hear reports that Campbell, Riverside, have been bought by the same company that publishes Mad magazine."
"How curious."
"Youth is big business. Schoolchildren spend fantastic amounts. If enough kids get radical307, that's a new mass market, then it's a big operation."
"I have a general idea."
"Very little is holding still. First making your money, then keeping your money from shrinking by inflation. How you invest it, whom you trust—you trust nobody—what you get with it, how you save it from those Federal taxation308 robbers, the gruesome Revenue Service. And how you leave it . . . wills! Those are the worst problems in life. Excruciating."
Uncle Sammler now understood fully57 how it was. His nephew Gruner had in his head a great blood vessel309, defective310 from birth, worn thin and frayed with a lifetime of pulsation311. A clot181 had formed from leakage312. The whole jelly trembled. One was summoned to the brink313 of the black. Any beat of the heart might open the artery and spray the brain with blood. These facts shimmered314 their way into Sammler's mind. Was it the time? The time? How terrible! But yes! Elya would die of a hemorrhage. Did he know this? Of course he did. He was a physician, so he must know. But he was human, so he could arrange many things for himself. Both knowing and not knowing—one of the more frequent human arrangements. Then Sammler, making himself intensely observant, concluded after ten or twelve minutes that Gruner definitely knew. He believed that Gruner's moment of honor had come, that moment at which the individual could call upon his best qualities. Mr. Sammler had lived a long time and understood something about these cases of final gallantry. If there were time, occasionally good things were done. If one had a certain kind of luck.
"Uncle, try some of these fruit jellies. The lime and orange are the best. From Beersheba."
"Aren't you watching your weight, Elya?"
"No, I'm not. They're making terrific stuff in Israel these days." The doctor had been buying Israel bonds and real estate. In Westchester, he served Israeli wine and brandy. He gave away heavily embossed silver ball-point pens, made in Israel. You could sign checks with them. For ordinary purposes they were not useful. And on two occasions Dr. Gruner, as he was picking up his fedora, had said, "I believe I’ll go to Jerusalem for a while."
"When are you leaving?"
"Now."
"Right away?"
"Certainly."
"Just as you are?"
"Just as I am. I can buy my toothbrush and razor when I land. I love it there."
He had his chauffeur315 drive him to Kennedy Airport.
"I’ll cable you, Emil, when Tm coming back."
In Jerusalem were more old relatives like Sammler, and Gruner did genealogies316 with them, one of his favorite pastimes . More than a pastime. He had a passion for kinships. Sammler found this odd, especially in a physician. As one whose prosperity had been founded in the female generative slime, he might have had less specific sentiment about his own tribe. But now, seeing a fatal dryness in the circles under his eyes, Sammler better understood the reason for this. To each according to his intimations. Gruner had not worked in his profession for ten years. He had had a heart attack and retired317 on insurance . After a year or two of payments, the insurance company insisted that he was well enough to practice, and there had been a lawsuit318. Then Dr. Gruner learned that insurance companies kept the finest legal talent in the city on retainer. The best lawyers were tied up, and the courts were deliberately319 choked with trivial suits by the companies, so that it was years before his case came to trial. But he won. Or was about to win. He had disliked his trade—the knife, blood. He had been conscientious320. He had done his duty. But he hadn't liked his trade. He was still, however, fastidiously manicured like a practicing surgeon. Here in the hospital the manicurist was sent for, and during Sammler's visit Gruner's fingers were being soaked in a steel basin. The strange tinge321 of male fingers in the suds. The woman in her white smock, every single hair of the neckless head the same hue322 of dyed black, without variation, was gloomy, sloven-footed in orthopedic white shoes. Heavy-shouldered, she bent323 with instruments over his nails, concentrating on her work. She had quite a wide, tear-pregnant nose. Dr. Gruner had to woo reactions from her. Even from such a dismal324 creature.
As it might not be many times more (for Elya) the room was filled with sunny light. In which familiar human postures326 were struck. From which no great results had come in the past. From which little could be expected at this late hour. What if the manicurist were to take a liking327 to Dr. Gruner? What if she should requite328 his longing? What was his longing? Mr. Sammler had a thing about these unprofitable instants of clarity. Seeing the singular human creature demand more when the sum of human facts could not yield more. Sammler did not like such instants, but they came nevertheless.
The woman pushed back the cuticle329. She would not be tempted330 up from her own underground galleries. Intimacy331 was refused.
"Uncle Artur, can you tell me anything about my grandmother 's brother in the old country?"
"Who?"
"Hessid was the man's name."
"Hessid? Hessid? Yes, there was a Hessid family."
"He had a mill for cornmeal, and a shop near the Castle . Just a small place with a few barrels."
"You must be mistaken. I remember no one in the family who ground anything. However, you have an excellent memory. Better than mine."
"Hessid. A fine-looking old man with a broad white beard. He wore a derby, and a very fancy vest with watch and chain. Called up often to read from the Torah, though he couldn't have been a heavy contributor to the synagogue."
"Ah, the synagogue. Well, you see, Elya, I didn't have much to do with the synagogue. We were almost freethinkers. Especially my mother. She had a Polish education . She gave me an emancipated332 name: Artur."
Sammler regretted that he was so poor at family reminiscences . Contemporary contacts being somewhat unsatisfactory, he would gladly have helped Gruner to build up the past.
"I loved old Hessid. You know, I was a very affectionate child."
"I'm sure you were," said Sammler. He could hardly remember Gruner as a boy. Standing187, he said, "I won't tire you with a long visit."
"Oh, you aren't tiring me. But you probably have things to do. At the public library. One thing, before you go, Uncle—you're in pretty good shape still. You took that last trip to Israel very well, and that was a tough one. Do you still like to run in Riverside Park, as you used to do?"
"Not lately. I feel too stiff for it."
"I was going to say, it's not safe to run down there. I don't want you mugged. When you're winded from running, some crazy sonofabitch jumps out and cuts your throat! Anyway, if you are too stiff to run you're far from feeble. I know you're not a sickly type, apart from your nervous trouble. You still get that small payment from the West Germans? And the Social Security? Yes, I'm glad we had the lawyer set that up, about the Germans. And I don't want you to worry, Uncle Artur."
"About what?"
"About anything at all. Security in old age. Being in a home. You stay with Margotte. She's a good woman. Shell look after you. I realize Shula is a little too nutty for you. She amuses other people but not her own father. I know how that can be."
"Yes, Margotte is decent. You couldn't ask for better."
"So, remember, Uncle, no worries."
"Thank you, Elya."
A confusing, frowning moment, and, getting into the breast, the head, and even down into the bowels333 and about the heart, and behind the eyes—something gripping, aching, smarting. The woman was buffing Gruner's nails, and he sat straight in the fully buttoned pajama coat; above it, the bandage hiding the throat with its screw. His large ruddy face was mainly unhandsome, his baldness, his big-eared plainness, the large tip of the nose; Gruner belonged to the common branch of the family. It was, however, a virile334 face, and, when superficial objections were removed, a kindly face. Sammler knew the defects of his man. Saw them as dust and pebbles335, as rubble336 on a mosaic337 which might be swept away. Underneath338, a fine, noble expression. A dependable man—a man who took thought for others.
"You've been good to Shula and me, Elya."
Gruner neither acknowledged nor denied this. Perhaps by the rigidity339 of his posture325 he fended193 off gratitude340 he did not deserve in full.
In short, if the earth deserves to be abandoned, if we are now to be driven streaming into other worlds, starting with the moon, it is not because of the likes of you, Sammler would have said. He put it more briefly341, "I’m grateful."
"you're a gentleman, Uncle Artur."
"I'll be in touch."
"Yes, come back. It does me good."
Sammler, outside the rubber-silenced door, put on his Augustus John hat. A hat from the Soho that was. He went down the corridor in his usual quick way, favoring the sightful side slightly, putting forward the right leg and the right shoulder. When he came to the anteroom, a sunny bay with soft plastic orange furniture, he found Wallace Gruner there with a doctor in a white coat. This was Elya's surgeon.
"My dad's uncle—Dr. Cosbie."
"How do you do, Dr. Cosbie." The conceivably wasted fragrance342 of Mr. Sammler's manners. Who was there now to be aware of such Old World stuff! Here and there perhaps a woman might appreciate his style of greeting. But not a Doctor Cosbie. The ex-football star, famous in Georgia , struck Sammler as a sort of human wall. High and flat. His face was mysteriously silent, and very white. The upper lip was steep and prominent. The mouth itself thin and straight. Somewhat unapproachable, he kept his hands behind his back. He had the air of a general whose mind is on battalions343 in a bloody344 struggle, just out of sight over a hill. To a civilian345 pest who came up to him at that moment he had nothing to say.
"How is Dr. Gruner?"
"Makin' good progress, suh. A very fine patient."
Dr. Gruner was being seen as he wished to be seen. Every occasion had its propaganda. Democracy was propaganda. From government, propaganda entered every aspect of life. You had a desire, a view, a line, and you disseminated346 it. It took, everyone spoke347 of the event in the appropriate way, under your influence. In this case Elya, a doctor, a patient, made it known that he was the patient of patients. An allowable foible; boyish, but what of it? It had a certain interest.
Faced with a doctor, Sammler had his own foible, for he often wanted to ask about his symptoms. This was repressed of course. But the impulse was there. He wanted to mention that he woke up with a noise inside his head, that his good eye built up a speck348 at the corner which he couldn't scratch out, it stuck in the fold, that his feet burned intolerably at night, that he suffered from pruritis ani. Doctors loathed349 laymen350 with medical phrases. All, naturally, was censored351 The tachycardia last of all. Nothing was shown to Cosbie but a certain cool, elderly cosiness352 . A winter apple. A busy-minded old man. Colored specs. A wide wrinkled hat brim. An umbrella on a sunny day—inconsequent. Long narrow shoes, cracked but highly polished.
Was he cold-hearted about Elya? No, he was grieving. But what could he do? He went on thinking, and seeing.
As usual, even in the midst of conversation, Wallace with round black eyes was dreaming away. Profoundly dreaming. He also had a very white color. In his late twenties he was still little brother with the curls, the lips of a small boy. A bit careless perhaps in his toilet habits, also like a small boy, he often transmitted to Sammler in warm weather (perhaps Sammler's nose was hypersensitive) a slightly unclean odor from the rear. The merest hint of fecal carelessness. This did not offend his great-uncle. It was simply observed, by a peculiarly delicate recording353 system. Actually, Sammler rather sympathized with the young man. Wallace fell into the Shula category. There was even a family resemblance, especially in the eyes- round, dark, wide, filling the big bony orbits, capable of seeing all, but adream, dreamy, as if drugged. He was a kinky cat, said Angela. With Dr. Cosbie he was discussing sports. Wallace took no common interest in any subject. With him all interests were uncommon354. He caught a tearing fever. Horses, football, hockey, baseball. He knew averages, performance records, statistics. You could test him by the almanac. Dr. Gruner said that he would be up at four a.m. memorizing tables and jotting355 away left-handed at top speed across the body. With this, the intellectual if slightly pedomorphic forehead, the refinement356 of the nose, somewhat too small, and the middle of the face, somewhat too concave, and a look of mental power, virility357, nobility, all slightly spoiled. Wallace nearly became a physicist358, he nearly became a mathematician, nearly a lawyer (he had even passed the bar and opened an office, once), nearly an engineer, nearly a Ph.D. in behavioral science. He was a licensed359 pilot. Nearly an alcoholic360, nearly a homosexual. At present he seemed to be a handicapper. He had yellow pages of legal foolscap covered with team names and ciphers361, and he and Dr. Cosbie, who seemed to be a gambler, too, were going over these intricate, many-factored calculations, and plainly the doctor was fascinated, not simply humoring Wallace. Slender Wallace in the dark suit was very handsome . A young man with stunning362 gifts. It was puzzling.
"You may be out of line on the Rose Bowl," said the doctor. 'Not at all," said Wallace. "Just examine this yardage analysis. I broke down last year's figures and fitted them into my own special equation: Now look . . ."
This was as much of the conversation as Sammler could follow. He waited awhile at the window observing traffic, women with dogs, leashed and unleashed363. A vacant building opposite marked for demolition364. Large white X's on the windowpanes. On the plate glass of the empty shop were strange figures or nonfigures in thick white. Most scrawls365 could be ignored. These for some reason caught on with Mr. Sammler as pertinent. Eloquent366. Of what? Of future nonbeing. (Elya!) But also of the greatness of eternity367 which shall lift us from this present shallowness. At this time forces, energies that might carry mankind up carried it down. For finer purposes of life, little was available. Terror of the sublime368 maddened all minds. Capacities, impressions, visions amassed369 in human beings from the time of origin, perhaps since matter first glinted with grains of consciousness, were bound up largely with vanities, negations, and revealed only in amorphous370 hints or ciphers smeared on the windows of condemned371 shops. All naturally were frightened of the future. Not death. Not that future. Another future in which the full soul concentrated upon eternal being. Mr. Sammler believed this. And in the meantime there was the excuse of madness. A whole nation, all of civilized society, perhaps, seeking the blameless state of madness. The privileged, the almost aristocratic state of madness. Meantime there spoke out those thick loops and open curves across an old tailor-shop window.
It was in Poland, in wartime, particularly during three or four months when Sammler was hidden in a mausoleum, that he first began to turn to the external world for curious ciphers and portents373. The dead life of that summer and into autumn when he had been a portent372 watcher, and very childish, for many larger forms of meaning had been stamped out, and a straw, or a spider thread or a stain, a beetle374 or a sparrow had to be interpreted. Symbols everywhere, and metaphysical messages. In the tomb of a family called Mezvinski he was, so to speak, a boarder. The peacetime caretaker of the cemetery375 let him have bread. Water, too. Some days were missed, but not many, and anyway Sammler saved up a small bread reserve and did not starve. Old Cieslakiewicz was dependable. He brought bread in his hat. It smelled of scalp, of head. And during this period there was a yellow tinge to everything, a yellow light in the sky. In this light, bad news for Sammler, bad news for humankind, bad information about the very essence of being was diffused376. Something hateful, and at times overwhelming. At its worst it seemed to go something like this: You have been summoned to be. Summoned out of matter. Therefore here you are. And though the vast over-all design may be of the deepest interest, whether originating in a God or in an indeterminate source which should have a different name, you yourself, a finite instance, are obliged to wait, painfully, anxiously, heartachingly, in this yellow despair. And why? But you must! So he lay and waited. There was more to this, when Sammler was boarding in the tomb. No time to be thinking, perhaps, but what else was there to do? There were no events. Events had stopped. There was no news. Cieslakiewicz with hanging mustache, swollen377 hands, palsy, his ugly blue eyes—Sammlers savior—had no news or would not give it. Cieslaldewicz had risked his life for him. The basis of this fact was a great oddity. They didn't like each other. What had there been to like in Sammler?—half-naked, famished378, caked hair and beard, crawling out of the forest. Long experience of the dead, handling of human bones, had perhaps prepared the caretaker for the apparition379 of Sammler. He had let him into the Mezvinski tomb, brought him some rags for cover. After the war Sammler had sent money, parcels, to Cieslakiewicz. There was correspondence with the family. Then, after some years, the letters began to contain anti-Semitic sentiments. Nothing very vicious. Only a touch of the old stuff. This was no great surprise, or only a brief one. Cieslakiewicz had had his time of honor and charity. He had risked his life to save Sammler. The old Pole was also a hero. But the heroism380 ended. He was an ordinary human being and wanted again to be himself. Enough was enough. Didn't he have a right to be himself? To relax into old prejudices? It was only the "thoughtful" person with his exceptional demands who went on with self-molestation—responsible to "higher values," to "civilization," pressing forward and so on. It was the Sammlers who kept on vainly trying to to perform some kind of symbolic381 task. The main result of which was unrest, exposure to trouble. Mr. Sammler had a symbolic character. He, personally, was a symbol. His friends and family had made him a judge and a priest. And of what was he a symbol? He didn’t even know. Was it because he had survived? He hadn't even done that, since so much of the earlier person had disappeared. It wasn't surviving, it was only lasting382. He had lasted. For a time yet he might last. A little longer, evidently, than Elya Gruner with the clamp or screw in his throat. That couldn't hold death off very long. A sudden escape of red fluid, and the man was gone. With all his will, purpose, his virtues383, his good record as a physician, his enterprises, card games, his loyalty384 to Israel, dislike of de Gaulle, with all his kindness of heart, greediness of heart, with his mouth making passionate100 love to the manifest, with his money talk, his Jewish fatherhood, his love and despair over son and daughter. When his life—or this life, that life, the other life—was gone, taken away, there would remain for Sammler, while he lasted, that bad literalness, the yellow light of Polish summer heat behind the mausoleum door. It was the light also of that china-cabinet room in the apartment where he had suffered confinement with Shula-Slaws. Endless literal hours in which one is internally eaten up. Eaten because coherence385 is lacking. Perhaps as a punishment for having failed to find coherence. Or eaten by a longing for sacredness. Yes, go and find it when everyone is murdering everyone. When Antonina was murdered. When he himself underwent murder beside her. When he and sixty or seventy others, all stripped naked and having dug their own grave, were fired upon and fell in. Bodies upon his own body. Crushing. His dead wife nearby somewhere. Struggling out much later from the weight of corpses386, crawling out of the loose soil. Scraping on his belly. Hiding in a shed. Finding a rag to wear. Lying in the woods many days.
Nearly thirty years after which, in April days, sunshine, springtime, another season, the rush and intensity387 of New York City about to be designated as spring; leaning on a soft, leatherlike orange sofa; feet on an umber Finnish rug with a yellow core or nucleus—with mitotic spindles; looking down to a street; in that street, a tailor's window on which the spirit of the time through the unconscious agency of a boy's hand had scrawled388 its augury389.
Is our species crazy?
Plenty of evidence.
All of course seems man's invention. Including madness. Which may be one more creation of that agonizing390 inventiveness. At the present level of human evolution propositions were held (and Sammler was partly swayed by them) by which choices were narrowed down to sainthood and madness. We are mad unless we are saintly, saintly only as we soar above madness. The gravitational pull of madness drawing the saint crashwards. A few may comprehend that it is the strength to do one's duty daily and promptly391 that makes saints and heroes. Not many. Most have fantasies of vaulting392 into higher states, feeling just mad enough to qualify.
Take someone like Wallace Gruner. The doctor was gone and Wallace, with his yellow papers, was standing gracefully393, handsomely, with his long lashes142. How much normalcy, what stability was Wallace prepared to sacrifice to obtain the grace of madness?
"Uncle?"
"Ah, yes, Wallace."
Some were eccentric, some were histrionic. Probably Wallace was genuinely loony. For him it required a powerful effort to become interested in common events. This was possibly why sporting statistics cast him into such a fever, why so often he seemed to be in outer space. Dans la lune. Well, at least he didn't treat Sammler as a symbol , and he apparently394 had no use for priests, judges, or confessors. Wallace said that what he appreciated in Uncle Sammler was his wit. Sammler, especially when greatly irritated or provoked, when he felt galled395, said witty396 things. In the old European style. Often these witticisms397 signaled the approach of a nervous fit.
But Wallace, when he began a conversation with Sammler, was immediately smiling, and sometimes he repeated the punch lines of Sammler's witticisms.
"Not a well-rounded person, Uncle?"
Referring to himself, Sammler once had observed, "I am more stupid about some things than about others; not equally stupid in all directions; I am not a well-rounded person."
Or else, a recent favorite with Wallace: "The billiard table, Uncle. The billiard table."
This had to do with Angela's trip to Mexico. She and Horricker had had an unhappy Mexican holiday. In January she had had enough of New York and winter. She wanted to go to Mexico, to a hot place, she said, where she could see something green. Then abruptly398, before he could check himself, Sammler had said, "Hot? Something green? A billiard table in hell would answer the description."
"Oh, wow! That really cracked me up," said Wallace.
Later he would ask Sammler if he had the exact words. Sammler smiled, his small cheeks began to flush, but he refused to repeat his sayings. Wallace was not witty. He had no such sayings. But he did have experiences, he invented curious projects. Several years ago he flew out to Tangiers with the purpose of buying a horse and visiting Morocco and Tunisia on horseback. Not taking his Honda, he said, because backward people should be seen from a horse. He had borrowed Jacob Burckhardt's Force and Freedom from Sammler, and it affected399 him strongly. He wanted to examine peoples in various stages of development . In Spanish Morocco he was robbed in his hotel. By a man with a gun, hidden in his closet. He then flew on to Turkey and tried again. Somehow he managed to enter Russia on his horse. In Soviet400 Armenia he was detained by the police. After Gruner had gone five or six times to see Senator Javits, Wallace was released from prison. Then, once again in New York, Wallace, taking a young lady to see the film The Birth of a Child, fainted away at the actual moment of birth, struck his head on the back of a seat, and was knocked unconscious. Reviving, he was on the floor. He found that his date had moved away from him in embarrassment401, changed her seat. He had a row with her for abandoning him. Wallace, borrowing his father's Rolls, let it somehow get away from him; carelessly parked, it ended up at the bottom of a reservoir somewhere near Croton. He drove a city bus crosstown to pay off debts. The Mafia was after him. His bookie gave him two months to pay. The handicapping hadn't worked. He flew with a friend to Peru to climb in the Andes. Said to be quite a good pilot. He offered to take Sammler into the air ("No, I believe not. Thank you just the same, Wallace "). He volunteered for the domestic Peace Corps74. He wanted to be of use to little black children, to be a basketball coach in playgrounds.
"What does this surgeon really think of Elya's chances, Wallace?"
"He's going to take new X rays of his head."
"Are they planning brain surgery now?"
"It depends on whether they can get to the place. They may not be able to reach it. Of course if they can't reach it, they can't reach it."
"To look at him you'd never think . . . He looks so well."
"Oh, yes," said Wallace. "Why not?"
Sammler sighed at this. He guessed how well pleased the late Mrs. Gruner must have been with her Wallace, his shapely head, long neck, crisp hair, and fine eyebrows402, the short clean line of the nose, and the neat nakedness of his teeth, the work of skilled orthodontia.
"It's hereditary, having an aneurysm. You happen to be born with a thin wall in an artery. I may have it. Angela may, too, though I’d be surprised if she had a thin place anywhere. But people, young people, too, perfect in every other respect sometimes, drop dead of it. Walking along strong, beautiful, full of beans, when it explodes inside. They die. There's a bubble first. Such as lizards403 blow from the throat, maybe. Then death. You've lived so long, you've probably come across this before."
"Even for me, there's always something a little new." "I had a lot of trouble with last week's crossword404 puzzle, the Sunday one. Did you work on it?"
"No."
"You sometimes do."
"Margotte didn't bring home the Times."
"Amazing how you know words."
For some months Wallace had actually practiced law. His father had rented the office; his mother had furnished it, calling in Croze the interior decorator. For six months Wallace rose punctually like any commuter405 and went to business. But at business it came out that he worked on nothing but crossword puzzles, locking the door, taking the phone off the hook, lying on the leather sofa. That was all. No, one thing more: he unbuttoned the stenographer's dress and examined her breasts. This information came from Angela, who had it from the girl, direct. Why did the girl permit it? Maybe she thought it would lead to marriage. Placing hopes in Wallace? No sane140 woman would. But his interest in the breasts had evidently been scientific. Something about nipples. Like Jean Jacques Rousseau, who became so engrossed406 in the breasts of a Venetian whore that she pushed him away and told him to go study mathematics . (More of Uncle Sammlers wide reading, his European culture.)
"I don't like the people who make up the puzzles. They have low-grade minds," said Wallace. "Why should people know so much trash? It's Eastern-Seaboard-educated trash. Smart-ass Columbia University quiz-kid miscellaneous information. I actually telephoned you about an old English dance. Jig108, reel, and hornpipe were all I could come up with. But this one began with an m."
"An m? Might it have been morrice?"
"Oh, damn! Of course it was morrice. Jesus, your mind is in good order. How do you happen to remember?"
"Milton, Comus. A wavering morrice to the moon."
"Oh, that's pretty. Oh, that's really lovely, a wavering morrice."
"Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move. It's the fishes, by the billions, I believe, and the seas themselves, performing the dance." "Why, that's splendid. You must be living right, to remember such pretty things. Your mind is not devoured407 by fool business. You're a good old guy, Uncle Artur. I don't like old people. I don't respect many individuals—a few physical scientists. But you—you're very austere in a way, but you have a good sense of humor. The only jokes I tell are the ones I hear from you. By the way, let me make sure I have the de Gaulle joke right. He said he didn't want to be buried under the Arc de Triomphe next to an unknown. à c?té d'un inconnu. Right?"
"So far."
"My father has it in for de Gaulle because he woos the Arabs. I’m fond of de Gaulle because he's a monument. And he wouldn't go into the Invalides with Napoleon, who was only a lousy corporal."
"Yes."
"But the Israelis wanted to charge him a hundred thousand bucks408 for space in the Holy Sepulcher409."
"That's the joke."
"And de Gaulle said, `For three days? It's too much money.' `Pour trois jours?' He was going to be resurrected, right? Now that, I think, is very funny." Wallace’s grave judgment. "Poles love to tell jokes," he said. He had no sense of humor. Sometimes he had occasion to laugh.
"Conquered people tend to be witty."
"You don't like Poles very much, Uncle."
"I think on the whole I like them better than they liked me. Besides, a Pan once saved my life."
"And Shula in the convent."
"Yes, that too. Nuns410 hid her."
"I can remember Shula years ago in New Rochelle, coming downstairs in her nightgown, and she was no kid, she must have been twenty-seven or so, kneeling in front of everybody in the parlor and praying. Did she use Latin? Anyway that nightgown was damn flimsy. I thought she was trying to get your goat, with her Christian411 act. It was a put-down, wasn't it, in a Jewish house? Some Jews, anyhow! Is she still such a Christian?"
"At Christmas and Easter, somewhat."
"And she bugs412 you about H. G. Wells. But fathers are soft on daughters. Look how Dad favors Angela. He gave her ten times more. Because she reminded him of Mae West. He was always smiling at her boobs. He wasn't aware of it. Mother and I saw it."
"What do you think will happen, Wallace?"
"My dad? He won't make it. He's got about a two percent chance. What good is that screw?"
"He's struggling."
"Any fish will fight. A hook in the gill. It gets jerked into the wrong part of the universe. It must be like drowning in air."
"Ah, that is terrifying," said Sammler.
"Still, to some people death is very welcome. If they've spoiled their piece of goods, I'm sure many would rather be dead. What I'm finding out is that when the parents are living, they stand between you and death. They have to go first, so you feel pretty safe. But when they die, you're next, and there's nobody ahead of you in line. At the same time I see already that I'm taking the wrong slant174 emotionally, and I know I’ll pay for it later. I'm part of the system, whether I like it or not." Another moment of silent aberrant413 reflection—Mr. Sammler felt the density414 and the unruliness of Wallace's thoughts. Then Wallace said, "I wonder why Dr. Cosbie is so keen on football pools."
"Aren't you?"
"Not the way I was. Dad told him how much I know about pro8 football. College football, too. That's all behind me now. But it was like Dad offering me to the surgeon, so I would do something for him, so that we would all be close and friendly."
"But it's something else you're keen on now?" "Yes. Feffer and I have a business idea. It's practically all I can think about."
"Ah, Feffer. He abandoned me at Columbia, and I haven't seen him since. I wondered even whether he was trying to make money on me."
"He's a terribly imaginative businessman, He'd con10 anyone. But maybe not you. Here's what we've come up with, as an enterprise. Aerial photographs of country houses. Then the salesman arrives with the picture—not just contacts but the fully developed picture—and offers you a package deal. We will identify the trees and shrubs415 on the place and band them handsomely, in Latin and English. People feel ignorant about the plants on their property."
"Does Feffer know trees?"
"In every neighborhood we'd hire a graduate student in botany. In Dutchess County, for instance, we could get someone from Vassar."
Mr. Sammler could not keep from smiling. "Feffer would seduce416 her, and also the lady of the house."
"Oh, no. I'd see he didn't get out of hand. I can control that character. He's a top salesman. Spring is a good time to start. Right now. Before the leaves are too thick for aerial photography. In the summer we could work Montauk, Chilmark, Wellfleet, Nantucket from the sea. My father won't give me the money."
"Is it a great deal?"
"A plane and equipment? Yes, it's considerable."
"You intend to buy a plane, not rent one?"
"Rent doesn't make sense. If you buy you get the tax write-off-depreciation. The secret of business is to make the government cover your risk. In Dad's bracket we'd save seventy cents on the dollar. The IRS is murder. He doesn't file a joint return and isn't head of a family since Mother died. He doesn't want to give me another lump sum. It's set up for me in trust so I’ll have to live on the income. When I had my chance I dropped fifty thousand in that boutique."
"Gambling417, I thought. Las Vegas."
"No, no, it was a motel complex in Vegas, and we had the clothing shop, the men's boutique."
A furious dresser and adorner418 of men's bodies, Wallace would have been.
"Uncle Artur, I'd like to put you on our payroll419. Feffer agrees. Feffer loves you, you know. If you don't want to do it, well put Shula on at fifty bucks a week."
"And in return for this? You want me to talk to your father?"
"Use your influence."
"No, Wallace, I'm afraid I couldn't. Why, think what's going on. It's dreadful. I'm terrified."
"You wouldn't upset him. He thinks the same thoughts whether you talk to him or not. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. He's brooding about this anyway."
"No, no."
"Well, that's your decision. There is something else, though. There's money at home, in New Rochelle. In the house."
"Excuse me?" From curiosity, uncertainty420, Sammler's voice went up.
"Hidden cash. A large amount. Never declared."
"It can't be, can it?"
"Oh yes it can, Uncle. You're surprised. If the inside of a person were only as simple as a watermelon-red meat, black seeds. Now and then, as a favor to highly placed people, Papa performed operations. Dilatation and curettage . Only when there was a terrific crisis, when some young socialite heiress got knocked up. Top secret. Only out of pity. My dad pitied famous families, and got big gifts of cash."
"Wallace, look. Let's talk straight. Elya is a good man. He stands close to the end. You're his son. You've been brought up to think that for your health you have to throw a father down. You've had a troubled life, I know. But this old-fashioned capitalistic-family-and-psychological struggle has to be given up, finally. I’m telling you this because you're basically intelligent. You've done a lot of peculiar things. No one can call you boring. But you may become boring if you don't stop. You could retire honorably now with plenty of interesting experience to point to. Enough. You should try something different."
"Well, Uncle Sammler, you have good manners. I know it. In some ways, you're aloof421 too. Sort of distant from life. But you put up with people's shenanigans and shtick. It's just your old-fashioned Polish politeness. All the same, there is also a practical question here. Nothing but practical."
"Practical?"
"My father has X thousands of dollars in the house, and he won't tell where it is. He's sore at us. He's in the capitalistic-family-psychology struggle. You're perfectly right—why should a person burn himself out with neurotic422 fever? There are higher aims in life. I don't think those are shit. Far from it. But you see, Uncle, if I have that plane, I can make a nice income with a few hours of flying. I can spend the rest of my time reading philosophy. I can finish up my Ph.D. In mathematics. Now listen to this. People are like simple whole numbers. Do you see?"
"No, of course not, Wallace."
"Numbers also bear an important relation to people. The series of numbers is like the series of human beings—infinite numbers of individuals. The characteristics of numbers are like the characteristics of matter, otherwise mathematical expressions could not tell us what matter will or may do. Mathematical equations lead us to physical realities. Things not yet seen. Like the turbulence423 of heated gases. Do you see now?"
"Only in the vaguest way."
"The equations preceded the actual observations. So what we need is a similar system of signs for human beings. In this system, what is One? What is the human integer like? Now you see, you've made me talk seriously to you. But just for a minute or two, I want to go on with that other thing. There is money in the house. I think there are phony pipes through the attic424 in which he hid the bills. He borrowed a Mafia plumber425 once. I know it. You might just slip in a reference to pipes or to attics426 in your next conversation. See how he reacts. He may decide to tell you. I don't want to have to tear apart the house."
"No, certainly not," said Sammler.
What is One?
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1
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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isotopes
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| n.同位素；同位素( isotope的名词复数 ) | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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13
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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coordination
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| n.协调，协作 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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beets
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| 甜菜( beet的名词复数 )； 甜菜根； （因愤怒、难堪或觉得热而）脸红 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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culling
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| n.选择，大批物品中剔出劣质货v.挑选，剔除( cull的现在分词 ) | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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expended
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| v.花费( expend的过去式和过去分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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32
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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33
postulates
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| v.假定，假设( postulate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
optimists
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| n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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35
pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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36
technological
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| adj.技术的；工艺的 | |
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37
expertise
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| n.专门知识(或技能等)，专长 | |
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38
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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39
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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40
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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41
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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42
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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43
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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44
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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45
textured
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| adj.手摸时有感觉的, 有织纹的 | |
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46
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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47
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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48
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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49
mathematician
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| n.数学家 | |
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50
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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51
ideology
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| n.意识形态，(政治或社会的)思想意识 | |
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52
transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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53
barometric
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| 大气压力 | |
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54
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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55
testy
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| adj.易怒的；暴躁的 | |
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56
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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57
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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58
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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59
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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60
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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61
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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62
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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63
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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64
quacked
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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66
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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67
preoccupied
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| 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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68
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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69
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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70
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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71
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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72
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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73
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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74
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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75
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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76
Nazi
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| n.纳粹分子，adj.纳粹党的，纳粹的 | |
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77
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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78
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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79
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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80
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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81
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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82
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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83
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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84
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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85
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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86
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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87
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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88
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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89
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
spurting
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的现在分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺； 溅射 | |
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91
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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92
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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93
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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94
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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95
repressions
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| n.压抑( repression的名词复数 )；约束；抑制；镇压 | |
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96
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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97
eccentricity
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| n.古怪，反常，怪癖 | |
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98
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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99
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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100
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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101
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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102
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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103
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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104
knuckles
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| 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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105
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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106
cymbals
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| pl.铙钹 | |
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107
jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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108
jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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109
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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110
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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111
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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112
jettison
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| n.投弃，投弃货物 | |
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113
deviation
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| n.背离，偏离；偏差，偏向；离题 | |
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114
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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115
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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116
bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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117
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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118
gapes
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的第三人称单数 )；张开，张大 | |
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119
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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120
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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121
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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122
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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123
electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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124
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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125
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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126
knights
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| 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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127
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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128
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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129
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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130
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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131
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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132
sociability
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| n.好交际，社交性，善于交际 | |
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133
tangling
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的现在分词 ) | |
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134
contentious
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| adj.好辩的，善争吵的 | |
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135
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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136
loutish
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| adj.粗鲁的 | |
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137
contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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138
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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139
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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140
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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141
leftover
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| n.剩货，残留物，剩饭；adj.残余的 | |
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142
lashes
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| 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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143
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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144
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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145
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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146
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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147
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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148
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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149
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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151
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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152
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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153
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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154
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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155
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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156
apocryphal
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| adj.假冒的，虚假的 | |
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157
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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158
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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159
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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160
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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161
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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163
reciprocate
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| v.往复运动；互换；回报，酬答 | |
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164
gauges
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| n.规格( gauge的名词复数 )；厚度；宽度；标准尺寸v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的第三人称单数 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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165
confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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166
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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167
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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168
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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169
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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170
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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171
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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172
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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173
rib
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| n.肋骨，肋状物 | |
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174
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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175
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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176
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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177
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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178
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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179
rascally
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| adj. 无赖的，恶棍的 adv. 无赖地，卑鄙地 | |
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180
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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181
clot
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| n.凝块；v.使凝成块 | |
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182
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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183
improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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184
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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185
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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186
versus
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| prep.以…为对手，对；与…相比之下 | |
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187
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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188
corrupting
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| （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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189
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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190
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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191
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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192
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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193
fended
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| v.独立生活，照料自己( fend的过去式和过去分词 )；挡开，避开 | |
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194
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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195
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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196
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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197
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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198
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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199
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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200
gender
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| n.（生理上的）性，（名词、代词等的）性 | |
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201
parody
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|
| n.打油诗文，诙谐的改编诗文，拙劣的模仿；v.拙劣模仿，作模仿诗文 | |
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202
satire
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|
| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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203
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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204
thighs
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|
| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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205
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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206
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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207
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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208
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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209
joint
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|
| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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210
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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211
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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212
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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213
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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214
rinsed
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|
| v.漂洗( rinse的过去式和过去分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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215
joyful
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|
| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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216
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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217
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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218
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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219
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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220
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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221
exhaustion
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|
| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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222
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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223
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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224
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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225
sanely
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| ad.神志清楚地 | |
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226
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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227
autonomous
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| adj.自治的；独立的 | |
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228
nude
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|
| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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229
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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230
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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231
purging
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| 清洗； 清除； 净化； 洗炉 | |
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232
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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233
plentiful
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|
| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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234
rebuke
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|
| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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235
nutritional
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| adj.营养的，滋养的 | |
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236
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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237
longevity
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| n.长命；长寿 | |
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238
hereditary
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|
| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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239
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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240
incarnate
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|
| adj.化身的，人体化的，肉色的 | |
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241
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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242
ebullient
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|
| adj.兴高采烈的，奔放的 | |
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243
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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244
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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245
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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246
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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247
succumbing
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的现在分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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248
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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249
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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250
participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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251
melodrama
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| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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252
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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253
sprint
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| n.短距离赛跑；vi. 奋力而跑，冲刺；vt.全速跑过 | |
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254
waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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255
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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256
disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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257
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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258
addicts
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| 有…瘾的人( addict的名词复数 )； 入迷的人 | |
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259
perverts
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| n.性变态者( pervert的名词复数 )v.滥用( pervert的第三人称单数 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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260
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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261
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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262
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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263
itching
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| adj.贪得的，痒的，渴望的v.发痒( itch的现在分词 ) | |
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264
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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265
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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266
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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267
indemnity
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| n.赔偿，赔款，补偿金 | |
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268
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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269
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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270
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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271
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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272
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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273
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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274
wastefulness
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| 浪费，挥霍，耗费 | |
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275
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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276
deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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277
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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278
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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279
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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280
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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281
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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282
illuminated
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|
| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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283
pious
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|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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284
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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285
holocaust
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| n.大破坏；大屠杀 | |
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286
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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287
bouffant
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|
| adj.（发式、裙子等）向外胀起的 | |
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288
outfits
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|
| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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289
aggravates
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| 使恶化( aggravate的第三人称单数 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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290
bosom
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|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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291
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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292
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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293
squandering
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|
| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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294
calves
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|
| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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295
brass
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|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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296
meticulously
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|
| adv.过细地，异常细致地；无微不至；精心 | |
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297
terrain
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| n.地面，地形，地图 | |
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298
pertinent
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|
| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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299
gimmick
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|
| n.(为引人注意而搞的)小革新，小发明 | |
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300
pajamas
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|
| n.睡衣裤 | |
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301
endorsements
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|
| n.背书( endorsement的名词复数 )；（驾驶执照上的）违章记录；（公开的）赞同；（通常为名人在广告中对某一产品的）宣传 | |
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302
approbation
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|
| n.称赞；认可 | |
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303
divest
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|
| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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304
conglomerate
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|
| n.综合商社，多元化集团公司 | |
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305
conglomerates
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|
| n.（多种经营的）联合大企业( conglomerate的名词复数 )；砾岩；合成物；组合物 | |
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306
parlors
|
|
| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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307
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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308
taxation
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|
| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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309
vessel
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|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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310
defective
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|
| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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311
pulsation
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|
| n.脉搏，悸动，脉动；搏动性 | |
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312
leakage
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|
| n.漏，泄漏；泄漏物；漏出量 | |
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313
brink
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|
| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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314
shimmered
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|
| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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315
chauffeur
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|
| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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316
genealogies
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|
| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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317
retired
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|
| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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318
lawsuit
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|
| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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319
deliberately
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|
| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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320
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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321
tinge
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|
| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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322
hue
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|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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323
bent
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|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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324
dismal
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|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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325
posture
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|
| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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326
postures
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| 姿势( posture的名词复数 )； 看法； 态度； 立场 | |
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327
liking
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|
| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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328
requite
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|
| v.报酬，报答 | |
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329
cuticle
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|
| n.表皮 | |
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330
tempted
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|
| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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331
intimacy
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|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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332
emancipated
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|
| 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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333
bowels
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|
| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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334
virile
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|
| 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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335
pebbles
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|
| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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336
rubble
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|
| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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337
mosaic
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|
| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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338
underneath
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|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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339
rigidity
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|
| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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340
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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341
briefly
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|
| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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342
fragrance
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|
| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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343
battalions
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|
| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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344
bloody
|
|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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345
civilian
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|
| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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346
disseminated
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|
| 散布，传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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347
spoke
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|
| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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348
speck
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|
| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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349
loathed
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|
| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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350
laymen
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|
| 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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351
censored
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|
| 受审查的，被删剪的 | |
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352
cosiness
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|
| n.舒适，安逸 | |
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353
recording
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|
| n.录音，记录 | |
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354
uncommon
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|
| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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355
jotting
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|
| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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356
refinement
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|
| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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357
virility
|
|
| n.雄劲，丈夫气 | |
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358
physicist
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|
| n.物理学家，研究物理学的人 | |
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359
licensed
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|
| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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360
alcoholic
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|
| adj.（含）酒精的，由酒精引起的；n.酗酒者 | |
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361
ciphers
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|
| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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362
stunning
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|
| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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363
unleashed
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|
| v.把（感情、力量等）释放出来，发泄( unleash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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364
demolition
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|
| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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365
scrawls
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|
| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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366
eloquent
|
|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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367
eternity
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|
| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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368
sublime
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|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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369
amassed
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|
| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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370
amorphous
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|
| adj.无定形的 | |
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371
condemned
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|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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372
portent
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|
| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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373
portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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374
beetle
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|
| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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375
cemetery
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|
| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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376
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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377
swollen
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|
| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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378
famished
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|
| adj.饥饿的 | |
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379
apparition
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|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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380
heroism
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|
| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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381
symbolic
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|
| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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382
lasting
|
|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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383
virtues
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|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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384
loyalty
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|
| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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385
coherence
|
|
| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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386
corpses
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|
| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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387
intensity
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|
| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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388
scrawled
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|
| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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389
augury
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|
| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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390
agonizing
|
|
| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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391
promptly
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|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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392
vaulting
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|
| n.（天花板或屋顶的）拱形结构 | |
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393
gracefully
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|
| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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394
apparently
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|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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395
galled
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|
| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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396
witty
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|
| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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397
witticisms
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|
| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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398
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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399
affected
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|
| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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400
Soviet
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|
| adj.苏联的，苏维埃的；n.苏维埃 | |
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401
embarrassment
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|
| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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402
eyebrows
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|
| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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403
lizards
|
|
| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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404
crossword
|
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| n.纵横字谜，纵横填字游戏 | |
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405
commuter
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| n.(尤指市郊之间)乘公交车辆上下班者 | |
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406
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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407
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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408
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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409
sepulcher
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| n.坟墓 | |
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410
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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411
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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412
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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413
aberrant
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| adj.畸变的，异常的，脱离常轨的 | |
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414
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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415
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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416
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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417
gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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418
adorner
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| 装饰器（电脑工具软件名称） | |
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419
payroll
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| n.工资表，在职人员名单，工薪总额 | |
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420
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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421
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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422
neurotic
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| 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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423
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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424
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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425
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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426
attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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