"Emil drove for Costello, for Lucky Luciano," said Wallace, smiling.
In the light of the padded gray interior, Wallace was beard-stippled. The large dark eyes in the big orbits wished to offer courteous16 entertainment. When you considered how profoundly Wallace was absorbed and preoccupied17 by business, by problems of character, by death, you recognized how generous and how difficult this was—how much trying, shaking, rousing, what an effort was required. Arranging a kindly20 smile for the old uncle.
"Luciano? Elya's friend? Yes. Eminent21 Mafia. Angela mentioned him."
"Connections from way back."
They drove out on the West Side Highway, along the Hudson. There was the water—how beautiful, unclean, insidious22! and there the bushes and the trees, cover for sexual violence, knifepoint robberies, sluggings, and murders . On the water bridgelight and moonlight lay smooth, enjoyably brilliant. And when we took off from all this and carried human life outward? Mr. Sammler was ready to think it might have a sobering effect on the species, at this moment exceptionally troubled. Violence might subside23, exalted24 ideas might recover importance. Once we were emancipated25 from telluric conditions.
In the Rolls was a handsome bar; it had a small light, within the mirror-lined cabinet. Wallace offered the old man liquor or Seven-Up, but he wanted nothing. Enclosing the umbrella between high knees, he was reviewing some of the facts. Outer-space voyages were made possible by specialist-collaboration. While on earth sensitive ignorance still dreamed of being separate and "whole." "Whole"? What "whole"? A childish notion. It led to all this madness, mad religions, LSD, suicide, to crime.
He shut his eyes. Breathed out of his soul some bad, and breathed in some good. No, thank you, Wallace, no whisky. Wallace poured some for himself.
How could the ignorant nonspecialist be strong with strength adequate to confront these technical miracles which made him a sort of uncomprehending Congo savage27? By vision, by archaic28 inner-preliterate purity, by natural force, nobly whole? The children were setting fire to libraries. And putting on Persian trousers, letting their sideburns grow. This was their symbolic30 wholeness. An oligarchy31 of technicians, engineers, the men who ran the grand machines, infinitely32 more sophisticated than this automobile33, would come to govern vast slums filled with bohemian adolescents, narcotized, beflowered, and "whole." He himself was a fragment, Mr. Sammler understood. And lucky to be that. Totality was as much beyond his powers as to make a Rolls Royce, part by part, with his own hands. So perhaps, perhaps! colonies on the moon would reduce the fever and swelling34 here, and the passion for boundlessness36 and wholeness might find more material appeasement38. Humankind, drunk with terror, calm itself, sober up.
Drunk with terror? Yes, and fragments (a fragment like Mr. Sammler) understood: this earth was a grave: our life was lent to it by its elements and had to be returned: a time came when the simple elements seemed to long for release from the complicated forms of life, when every element of every cell said, "Enough!" The planet was our mother and our burial ground. No wonder the human spirit wished to leave. Leave this prolific39 belly40. Leave also this great tomb. Passion for the infinite caused by the terror, by timor mortis, needed material appeasement. Timor mortis conturbat me. Dies irae. Quid sum miser41 tunc dicturus.
The moon was so big tonight that it caught the eye of Wallace, drinking in the back seat, in the unlimited42 luxury of upholstery and carpets. Legs crossed, leaning back, he pointed43 moonward past Emil, above the smooth parkway north of the George Washington Bridge.
"Isn't the moon great? They're buzzing away, around it," he said.
"Who?"
"Spacecraft are. Modules44."
"Oh, yes. It's in the papers. Would you go there?"
"Would I ever! In a minute," said Wallace. "Out—out? You bet I'd go. I'd fly. In fact, I'm already signed up with Pan Am."
"With whom?"
"With the airlines. I believe I was the five-hundred-twelfth person to phone for a reservation."
"Are they already taking reservations for moon excursions?"
"They most certainly are. Hundreds of thousands of people want to go. Also to Mars and Venus, jumping off from the moon."
"How very odd."
"What's odd about it? To go? It isn't odd at all. I tell you, the airlines get bales of applications. What about you, would you take the trip, Uncle?"
"No."
"Because of your age, maybe?"
"Possibly age. No, my travels are over."
"But the moon, Uncle! Of course you wouldn't physically45 be able to do it; but a man like you? I can't believe such a person wouldn't be raring to go."
"To the moon? But I don't even want to go to Europe," Mr. Sammler said. "Besides, if I had my choice, I'd prefer the ocean bottom. In Dr. Piccard's bathysphere. I seem to be a depth man rather than a height man. I do not personally care for the illimitable. The ocean, however deep, has a top and bottom, whereas there is no sky ceiling. I think I am an Oriental, Wallace. Jews, after all, are Orientals. I am content to sit here on the West Side, and watch, and admire these gorgeous Faustian departures for the other worlds. Personally, I require a ceiling, although a high one. Yes, I like ceilings, and the high better than the low. In literature I think there are low-ceiling masterpieces—Crime and Punishment, for instance—and high-ceiling masterpieces, Remembrance of Things Past."
Claustrophobia? Death is confinement46.
Wallace, continuing to smile, softly but definitely differed ; yet took a subtle interest in Uncle Sammler's views. "Of course," he said, "the world looks different to you. Literally47. Because of the eyes. How well do you see?"
"Partially48 only. You are right."
"And yet you described that Negro man and his thing."
"Ah, Feffer told you that. Your partner. I should have known he'd rush to tell. I hope he's not serious about snapping photographs on the bus."
"He thinks he can, with his Minox. He is sort of a nut. I suppose that when people are young and full of enthusiasm, you say, 'All that youth and enthusiasm,' but as they grow older you just say, about the same behavior, 'What a nut.' He was very excited by your experience. What actually did the man do, Uncle? He exhibited himself. Did he drop his trousers?"
"No."
"He opened them. And then he took out his tool. What was it like? I wonder . . . Did it occur to him that your eyesight wasn't good enough to see?"
"I don't know what occurred to him. He didn't say."
"Well, tell me about his thing. It wasn't actually black, was it? It must have been a purple kind of chocolate, or maybe the color of his palms?"
Wallace's scientific objectivity!
"I don't wish to talk about it, really."
"Oh, Uncle, suppose I were a zoologist49 who had never seen a live leviathan but you knew Moby Dick from the whaleboat? Was it sixteen, eighteen inches?"
"I couldn't say."
"Would you guess it weighed two pounds, three pounds, four?"
"I have no way to estimate. And you are not a zoologist. You just this minute became one."
"Uncircumcised?"
"That was my impression."
"I wonder if women really prefer that kind of thing."
"I assume they have other interests in addition."
"That's what they say. But you know you can't trust them. They're animals, aren't they."
"Temporarily there is an animal emphasis."
"I'm not taken in by the gentle-dainty-lady line. Women are lustful50. They're raunchier than men in my opinion. With all respect for your experience and knowledge of life, Uncle Sammler, this is a field where I wouldn't be inclined to take your word. Angela would always say that if a man had a thick dick—excuse me, Uncle."
"Angela is perhaps a special case."
"You prefer to think she's off the continuum. What if she's not?"
"I'd like to drop the subject, Wallace."
"No, it’s really too interesting. And this is pure objectivity , not a dirty conversation. Now, Angela gives a good report on Wharton Horricker. It seems he's a long, strong fellow. She says, however, that he takes too much exercise, he's too muscular. It's hard to get tender emotions from a man who has such steel cable arms and heavy thick weight-lifting pectorals. An iron man. She says it interferes51 with the flow of tender feeling."
"I hadn't thought about it."
"What does she know about tender feeling? Just some guy between her legs—Everyman is her lover. No, Anyman. They say that fellows that beef themselves up like that—'I was a ninety-pound weakling'—that such fellows are narcissistic52 pansies. I don't judge anybody. What if they are homosexuals? That's nothing any more. I don't think homosexuality is simply a different way of being human, I actually think it's a disease. I don't know why homosexuals fuss so much and proclaim themselves so normal. Such gentlemen. Of course they have us to point at and we're not so great. I believe this boom in faggots was caused by modern warfare. One result of 1914, that slaughter53 in the trenches54. The men were getting blasted. It was obviously healthier to be a woman than a man. It was better to be a child. Best of all is to be an artist, combining child, woman, or dervish—do I mean a dervish? A shaman? A necromancer55 is probably what I mean. Plus millionaire. Many a millionaire wants to be an artist, or a kid or woman and a necromancer. What was I talking about? Oh, Horricker. I was saying that in spite of all that physical culture and weight lifting he was not a queer. But that he did have a fantastic image of male strength. A person making a determined56 self-effort. Angela's job seemed to be to take him down a few pegs57. She's weepy about him today, but she's a pig, and hell be forgotten tomorrow. I think my sister is a swine. If he's got too much muscle, she's got too much fat. What about that fat bust58 interfering59 with the flow of tender feeling? What did you say just now?"
"Not a word."
"Sometimes at night, last thing before sleeping, I go through a whole list of people and call them all swine. I find it's marvelous therapy. I clear my mind for the night. If you were in the room, you'd only hear me saying, 'Swine, swine, swine!' Not the names. Each name is mental. Don't you agree that shell forget Horricker by tomorrow?"
"I think she may. But I trust she's not too lost."
"She's a female-power type, the femme fatale. Every myth has its natural enemies. The enemy of the distinguished-male myth is the femme fatale. Between those thighs61, a man's conception of himself is just assassinated62. If he thinks he's so special she’ll show him. Nobody is so special. Angela represents the realism of the race, which is always pointing out that wisdom, beauty, glory, courage in men are just vanities and her business is to beat down the man's legend about himself. That's why she and Horricker are finished, why she let that twerp in Mexico ball her fore60 and aft in front of Wharton, with who-knows-what-else thrown in free by her. In a spirit of participation63."
"I didn't know that Horricker had such a presumptuous64 image of himself."
"Let's get back to that other matter. What else did the man do, did he shake the thing at you?"
"Not at all. But the subject is becoming unpleasant. He was warning me not to defend the poor old man he robbed. Not to inform the police. I had already tried to inform them."
"You, naturally, would feel sorry for those people he robs."
"It’s ugly. Not that I have such a tender heart."
"You've probably seen too much. Weren't you invited to testify at the Eichmann trial?"
"I was approached. I didn't feel up to it."
"You wrote that article about that crazy character from Lodz—King Rumkowski."
"Yes."
"I often think a man's parts look expressive65. Women's too. I think they're just about to say something, through those whiskers."
Sammler did not answer. Wallace sipped66 his whisky as a boy might sip67 Coca-Cola.
"Of course," Wallace said, "the blacks speak another language. A kid pleaded for his life—"
"What kid?"
"In the papers. A kid who was surrounded by a black gang of fourteen-year-olds. He begged them not to shoot, but they simply didn't understand his words. Literally not the same language. Not the same feelings. No comprehension. No common concepts. Out of reach."
I was begged, too. Sammler however did not say this.
"The child died?"
"The kid? After some days he died of the wound. But the boys didn't even know what he was saying."
"There is a scene in War and Peace I sometimes think about," said Sammler. "The French General Davout, who was very cruel, who was said, I think, to have torn out a man's whiskers by the roots, was sending people to the firing squad68 in Moscow, but when Pierre Bezhukov came up to him, they looked into each other's eyes. A human look was exchanged, and Pierre was spared. Tolstoy says you don't kill another human being with whom you have exchanged such a look."
"Oh, that's marvelous! What do you think?"
"I sympathize with such a desire for such a belief."
"You only sympathize."
"No, I sympathize deeply. I sympathize sadly. When men of genius think about humankind, they are almost forced to believe in this form of psychic69 unity70. I wish it were so."
"Because they refuse to think themselves entirely71 exceptional. I see that. But you don't think this exchange of looks will work? Doesn't it happen?"
"Oh, it probably happens from time to time. Pierre Bezhukov was altogether lucky. Of course he was a person in a book. And of course life is a kind of luck, for the individual. Very booklike. But Pierre was exceptionally lucky to catch the eye of his executioner. I myself never knew it to work. No, I never saw it happen. It is a thing worth praying for. And it is based on something. It's not an arbitrary idea. It's based on the belief that there is the same truth in the heart of every human being, or a splash of God's own spirit, and that this is the richest thing we share in common. And up to a point I would agree. But though it's not an arbitrary idea, I wouldn't count on it."
"They say that you were in the grave once."
"Do they?"
"How was it?"
"How was it. Let us change the subject. We are already on the Cross County Highway. Emil is very fast."
"No traffic, this time of night. I had my life saved, one time. It was before New Rochelle. I cut school and roamed the park. The lagoon72 was frozen, but I fell through the ice. There was a Japanese type of bridge, and I was climbing the girders, underneath74, and tumbled off. It was December, and the ice was gray. The snow was white. The water was black. I was hanging on to the ice, scared shitless, and my soul felt like a little marble rolling away, away. A bigger kid came and saved me. He was a truant75, too, and he crawled out on the ice with a branch. I caught hold, and he dragged me out. Then we went to the men's toilet in the boathouse, and I stripped. He rubbed me with his sheepskin coat. I laid my clothes on the radiator77, but they wouldn't dry. He said, 'Jeez kid, you're gonna catch hell.' My dear mother raised hell all right. She pulled my ears because my clothes were wet."
"Very good. She should have done it oftener."
"You know something? I agree. You're right. The memory is precious. It's much more vivid than chocolate cake, and much richer. But Uncle Sammler, the next day at school when I saw the kid I made up my mind to give him my allowance, which was ten cents."
"He took it?"
"He sure did."
"I like such stories. What did he say?"
"Not a word. He just nodded his head and took the dime78. He stuck it in his pocket and went back to his bigger pals79. I guess he felt he had earned it on the ice. It was his fair reward."
"I see you have these recollections.
"Well, I need them. Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance80 from the door."
And all this will continue. It will simply continue. Another six billion years before the sun explodes. Six billion years of human life! It lames81 the heart to contemplate82 such a figure. Six billion years! What will become of us? Of the other species, yes, and of us? How will we ever make it? And when we have to abandon the earth, and leave this solar system for another, what a moving-day that will be. But by then humankind will have become very different. Evolution continues. Olaf Stapledon reckoned that each individual in future ages would be living thousands of years. The future person, a colossal83 figure, a beautiful green color, with a hand that had evolved into a kit84 of extraordinary instruments, tools strong and subtle, thumb and forefinger85 capable of exerting thousands of pounds of pressure. Each mind belonging to a marvelous analytical87 collective, thinking out its mathematics, its physics as part of a sublime88 whole. A race of semi-immortal giants, our green descendants, dear kin19 and brethren, inevitably89 containing still some of our bitter peculiarities91 as well as powers of spirit. The scientific revolution was only three hundred years old. Give it a million, give it a billion more. And God? Still hidden, even from this powerful mental brotherhood92, still out of reach?
But now the Rolls was in the lanes. You could hear the new spring leaves brushing and stirring as the silver car passed. After many years, Sammler still did not know the way to Elya's house in the suburban93 woods, the small roads twisted so. But here was the building, half-timbered Tudor style, where the respectable surgeon and his homemaking wife had brought up two children, and played badminton on this pleasant grass. In 1947 as a refugee Sammler had been astonished at their playfulness—adults with rackets and shuttlecocks. The lawn now was lighted by the moon, which seemed to Sammler clean-shaven; the gravel94, fine, white, and small, made an amiable95 sound of grinding under the tires. The elms were thick, old—older than the combined ages of all the Gruners. Animal eyes appeared in the headlights, or beveled reflectors set out on the borders of paths shone: mouse, mole7, woodchuck, cat, or glass bits peering from grass and bush. There were no lighted windows. Emil turned his brights on the front door. Wallace, as he hurried out, spilled his whisky on the carpet. Sammler groped for the glass and gave it to the chauffeur96, explaining, "This fell." Then he followed Wallace over the rustling97 gravel.
As soon as Sammler entered, Emil backed away to the garage. That left only moonlight in the rooms. A house of misconceived purposes, as it had always seemed to Sammler, where nothing really functioned except the mechanical appliances. But Gruner had always taken care of it conscientiously98, especially since the death of his wife, in a memorial spirit. Just as Margotte did for Ussher Arkin. That was fresh gravel in the drive. As soon as winter ended, Gruner ordered it laid down. The moon rinsed99 the curtains and foamed100 like peroxide on the nap of the white heavy carpets.
"Wallace?" Sammler believed he heard him below in the cellar. If he didn't turn on the lights, it was because he didn't want Sammler to know his movements. The poor fellow was demented. Mr. Sanunler, forced by life, by fate, by what you like, to be disinterested102, to think to the best of his ability on universal lines, was not about to stoop to policing Wallace in his father's house, to prevent him from digging out money—real or imaginary criminal abortion103 dollars.
Examining the kitchen, Sammler found no evidence that anyone had lately been here. The cupboards were shut, the stainless-steel sink and counters dry. As in a model exhibit. Cups on their hooks, none missing. But at the bottom of the garbage pail lined with a brown paper bag was an empty tuna-fish can; water-packed, Geisha brand, freshly fish-smelly. Sammler held it to his nose. Aha! Had someone lunched? Emil the chauffeur, perhaps? Or Wallace himself, straight from the can without vinegar or dressing104? Wallace would have left crumbs105 on the counter, and the soiled fork, disorderly signs of eating. Sammler put back the cut tin circle, released the pedal of the pail, and went to the living room. There he felt the chain mail of the fire screen, for Shula was fond of fires. It was cool. But the evening was warm. This proved nothing.
Then he went on to the second floor, recalling how he and she had played hide-and-go-seek in London thirty-five years ago. He had been good at it, talking aloud to himself. "Is Shula in this broom closet? Let me see. Where can she be? She is not in the broom closet. How mystifying! Is she under the bed? No. My, what a clever little girl. How well she hides herself. She's simply disappeared." While the child, just five years old, thrilling with game fever, positively107 white, crouched108 behind the brass109 scuttle110 where he pretended not to see her, her bottom near the floor, her large kinky head with the small red bow—a whole life there. Melancholy111. Even if there hadn't been the war.
However, theft! That was serious. And theft of intellectual property—even worse. And in the dark he yielded somewhat to elderly weakness. Too old for this. Toiling112 along the banister in the fatiguing113 luxury of the carpet. He belonged at the hospital. An old relative in the waiting-room. Much more appropriate. On the second floor, the bedrooms. He moved cautiously in darkness. In the housebound air were old odors of soap and eau de cologne. No one had lately ventilated the place.
A sound of water reached him, a slight movement in a full tub. A wallow. His hand reached in, wrist bent114, sliding over the tile wall until he found the electric switch. In the light he saw Shula trying to cover her breasts with a washcloth. The enormous tub was only half occupied by her short body. The soles of her white feet, he saw, the black female triangle, and the white swellings with large rings of purplish brown. The veins115. Yes, yes, she belonged to the club. The gender116 club. This was a female. That was a male. Much difference it could make to him.
"Father. Please. Please turn off the light."
"Nonsense. I’ll wait in the bedroom. Wrap yourself up. Be quick about it."
He sat in Angela's old room. When she was a young girl. Or an apprentice117 whore. Well, people went to the wars. They took what weapons they had, and they advanced toward the front.
Sammmler sat in a peach cretonne boudoir chair. Hearing no movements in the bathroom, he called, "I’m waiting," and she surged up from the water. He heard her feet, solid, rapid. In walking she always brushed objects with her body. She never simply walked. She touched things and claimed them. As property. Then she entered, quick-footed, wearing a man's woolen118 robe and a towel on her head, and she seemed to be gasping119, shocked at being seen in the tub by her father.
"Well, where is it?"
"Daddy!"
"No. I am the one that is shocked, not you. Where is that document you have stolen twice?"
"It was not stealing."
"Other people may make new rules as they go along, but I will not, and you will not put me in that position. I was about to return the manuscript to Dr. Lal, and it was taken from my desk. Just as it was taken from his hands. Same method."
"That is not the way to look at it. But don't excite yourself too much."
"After all this, don't protect my heart or hint that I am an old man who may fall dead of apoplexy. You won't get away with anything like that. Now, where is this object?"
"It's really perfectly120 safe." She began to speak Polish. Severe, he denied her permission to speak that language. She was trying to invoke121 her terrible times of hiding-the convent, the hospital, the contagious122 ward12 when the German searching party came.
"None of that. Answer in English. Have you brought it here?"
"I’ve had a copy made. Daddy, I went to Mr. Widick's office . . ."
Sammler held himself in. Since he wouldn't allow her to speak Polish she was lapsing123 into something else, childishness. With small-girl softness, she lowered her mature, already fully124 aged126" target="_blank">middle-aged125 face. She was now meeting his look from one side, with only the one expanded childlike eye, and her chin shyly, slyly sinking toward the woolen robe.
"Yes? Well, what did you do in Mr. Widick's office?
"He has one of those duplicating machines. I've used it for Cousin Elya. And Mr. Widick never goes home. He must hate home. He's always at the office, so I called and asked to use the machine, and he said, 'Sure.' I Xeroxed the whole thing."
"For me?"
"Or for Dr. Lal."
"You thought I might want the original?"
"If it's more convenient for you."
"Now, what have you done with these manuscripts?"
"I locked them in two lockers128 in Grand Central Station."
"In Grand Central. Good God. You have the keys, or have you lost the keys?"
"I have them, Father."
"Where are they?"
Shula was prepared for him. She produced two stamped and sealed envelopes. One was addressed to him, the other to Dr. Govinda Lal at Butler Hall.
"You were going to send these through the mails? The locker129 is for twenty-four hours only. These might take a week to arrive. Then what? And did you write down the numbers of the lockers? No. Then how would one know where they were if the letters got lost? You'd have to make a claim and prove ownership, authorship. Enough to drive a man out of his mind."
"Don't scold so hard. I did everything for you. You had stolen property in your house. The detective said it was stolen property, and anybody who had it was a receiver of stolen property."
"From now on, do me no such favors. It can't even be discussed with you. You seem to have no grasp of the matter."
"I brought it to you to show my faith in the memoir130. I wanted to remind you how important it is. Sometimes you yourself forget. As If H. G. Wells were nothing so special. Well, maybe not to you, but to a great many people H. G. Wells is still important and very very special. I've been waiting for you to finish, and be reviewed in the papers. I wanted to see my father's picture in the bookshops, instead of all those foolish faces and unimportant stupid books."
The soiled rental131 keys in the envelopes. Mr. Sammler considered them. As well as exasperating132, troubling, she was of course sadly amusing. If the lockers contained the manuscripts and not wads of paper in portfolios133. No, he thought not. She was only a bit crazy. His poor child. A creature caused by him and adrift in a formless, boundless35 world. How had she come to be like this? Perhaps the inward, the intimate, the dear life—the thing that is oneself from earliest days—when it first learns of death is often crazed. Here magical powers must help, assuage134, console, and for a woman, those marvelous powers so often are the powers of a man. As, Antony dying, Cleopatra cried she wouldn't abide135 in this dull world which "in thy absence is No better than a sty." And? A sty, and? He now remembered the end, fit for this night. "There is nothing left remarkable136 Beneath the visiting moon."
And he was supposed to be the remarkable thing, he who sitting on this glazed137 slipcover felt under him the tedium138 of its peach color and its fat red flowers. Such an article, meant to oppress and afflict139 the soul, was even now succeeding . He had remained touchable, vulnerable to trifles. But Mr. Sammler still received primordial140 messages too. And the immediate141 basic message was that she, this woman with her sexual female form plain in the tight wrapping of the woolen robe (especially beneath the waist, where a thing was to make a lover gasp), this mature woman should not now be asking that her daddy make sublunary objects remarkable. For one thing, he never bestrode the world like a Colossus with armies and navies, dropping coronets from his pockets. He was only an old Jew whom they had hacked142 at, shot at, but missed killing143 somehow, murdering everyone else with their blasts. In their peculiar90 transformation144: a people changed into uniform, masked in military cloth and helmets, and coming with machinery145 for the purpose of murdering boys, girls, men, women, making blood run, burying, and finally exhuming146 and burning rotten corpses148. Man is a killer149. Man has a moral nature. The anomaly can be resolved by insanity150 only, by insane dreams in which delusions152 of consciousness are maintained by organization, in states of mad perdition clinging to forms of business administration. Making it "government work." All of that! But in this world he, now he, dear God! was to supply his unhinged, wavering-witted daughter with high aims. And of course in Shula's view he had been getting too delicate for earthly life, too absorbed in unshared universals, excluding her. And by extravagance , by animal histrionics, by papers pinched, by goofy business with shopping bags, trash basket neuroses, exotic heartburn cookery she wished to implicate153 him and bring him back, to bind154 him and keep him in the world beside her. Some world! Some her! Their elevation155 would be joint156 elevation. She would back him, and he would accomplish great things in the world of culture. For she was kulturnaya. Shula was so kulturnaya. Nothing was more suitable than this philistine158 Russian word. Kulturny. She might creep down on her knees and pray like a Christian159; she might pull that on her father; she might crawl into dark confession160 boxes; she might run to Father Robles and invoke Christian protection against his Jewish anger; but in her nutty devotion to culture she couldn't have been more Jewish.
"Very well, my photograph in bookshops. A fine idea. Excellent. But stealing . . . ?"
"It wasn't actually stealing."
"Well, what word do you prefer, and what difference does it make? Like the old joke: what more do I learn about a horse if I know that in Latin it is called equus?"
"But I'm not a thief."
"Very well. In your mind you're not a thief. Only in fact."
"I thought if you were really, really serious about H. G. Wells you would have to know if he predicted accurately161 about the moon, or Mars, and that you'd pay any price to have the latest, most up-to-date scientific information. A creative person wouldn't stop at anything. For the creative there are no crimes. And aren't you a creative person?"
It seemed to Sammler that inside him (faute de mieux, in his mind) was a field in which many hunters at cross-purposes were firing bird shot at a feather apparition162 assumed to be a bird. Shula had meant to set him a test. Was he the real thing or wasn't he? Was he creative, a force of nature, a true original, or not? Yes, it was a fitness test, and this was very American of Shula. Did an American exist who was not morally didactic? Was there any crime committed which didn't punish the victim for "the greater good"? Was there any sinner who did not sin pro10 bono publico? So great was the evil of helpfulness, and so immense the liberal spirit of explanation. The psychopathology of teaching in the United States. So, then, was Papa a true creative intransigent—capable of bold theft for the sake of the memoir? Could he risk all for H. G.?
"Truthfully, my child, have you ever read a book of Wells'?"
"Yes, I have."
"Tell me—but the truth, just between you and me."
"I read one book, Father."
"One? One book by Wells is like trying to bathe in a single wave. What was the book?"
"It was about God."
"God the Invisible King?"
"That's the one."
"Did you finish it?"
"No."
"Neither did I."
"Oh, Father—you?"
"I just couldn't read it. Human evolution with God as Intelligence. I soon saw the
point, then the rest was tedious, garrulous164"
"But it was so intelligent. I read a few pages and was so thrilled. I knew he was a great man, even if I couldn't read the whole book. You know I can't read an entire book. I’m too restless. But you've read all his other books."
"No one could read them all. I’ve read many. Probably too many."
Smiling, Sammler emptied the envelopes and tossed the crumpled165 ball into Angela's wastepaper basket of gilded166 Florentine leather. Acquired by her mother on a tour. The keys he dropped into his pocket, leaning far to one side in the boudoir chair to get at the flap.
Shula, observing silently, was smiling also, holding her wrists with her fingers, forearms crossing on her bosom167 to keep the robe from falling open. Sammler, despite the washrag, had seen the brown-purple tips, enriched with salient veins. At the corner of her mouth, now that she had done her mischief168, there was a chaste169 twist of achievement. The flat black kinked hair was covered up, towel-swathed, except, as always, for the kosher sidelocks escaping at her ears. And smiling as if she had eaten a plateful of divine forbidden soup, and what was to be done about it now that it was down? At the back, the white nape of her neck was strong. Biological strength. Below the neck there was a mature dorsal170 hump. A grown woman. But the arms and legs were not proportionate. His only begotten171 child. He never doubted that she performed acts originating far beyond, in the past, of unconscious ancestral origin. He was aware how true this was of himself. Especially in religious matters. She was a praying nut, but he, after all, was given to praying, too, often addressed God. Just now he asked to understand why he so much loved this fool woman with the thick, uselessly sensual cream skin, the painted mouth, and that towel turban.
"Shula, I know you did this for me—"
"You are more important than that man, Father. You needed it."
"But from now on, don't use me as an excuse. For your exploits . . ."
"We nearly lost you in Israel, in that war. I was afraid you wouldn't finish your lifework."
"Nonsense, Shula. What lifework! And killed? There? The finest death I could imagine. Besides, there was no danger. Ridiculous!"
Shula stood up. "I hear wheels," she said. "Somebody just drove up."
He had not heard. She had keen senses. Idiot ingenuous173 animal, she had ears like a fox. Rising so abrupt174, standing175 silent to listen, queenly, dim-witted, alert. And the white feet. Her feet had not been disfigured by fashionable shoes.
"It probably is Emil."
"No, it's not Emil. I must get dressed."
She ran from the room.
Sammler went downstairs wondering where Wallace had gone. The doorbell began to chime and continued chiming. Margotte didn't know how to ring, when to stop pushing a button. He could see her, through the long narrow pane73, in her straw hat, and Professor V. Govinda Lal was with her.
"We hired a Hertz car," she said. The Professor couldn't bear to wait. We talked to Father Robles on the phone. He hadn't seen Shula in days."
"Professor Lal. Imperial College. Biophysics."
"I am Shula's father."
There were small bows, a handshake.
"We can sit in the living room. Shall I make a pot of coffee? Is Shula here?" said Margotte.
"And my manuscript?" said Lal. "The Future of the Moon?"
"Safe," said Sammler. "Not actually in the house, but locked up safely. I have the keys. Professor Lal, please accept my apologies. My daughter has behaved very badly. Caused you pain."
Sammler under the foyer light saw the shocked and disappointed face of Lal: brown cheeks, black hair, neat, vivid, and gracefully176 parted, and a huge spreading beard. The inadequacy178 of words—the need for several simultaneous languages to address all parts of the mind at once, especially those parts left free by meager179 communication, functioning furiously on their own. Instead, as one were to smoke ten cigarettes simultaneously180; while also drinking whisky; while also being sexually engaged with three or four other persons; while hearing bands of music; while receiving scientific notations—thus to capacity engagé . . . the boundlessness, the pressure of modem181 expectations.
Lal shouted, "Dear me! This is intolerable! Intolerable! Why am I sent this punishment!"
"Pour Dr. Lal a brandy, Margotte."
"I do not drink! I do not drink!"
In the dark setting of his beard the teeth were clenched182. Then, aware of his own loudness, he said in more appropriate tones, "Normally I do not drink."
"But, Dr. Lal, you recommended beer on the moon. However—I am illogical. Go on, go on, Margotte, don't just look solicitous183. Get the brandy. I'll have some if he won't. You know where the liquor is. Bring two glasses. Now, Professor, the anxiety will soon be over."
The living room was what they called "sunken." You had to descend13. A well, a pool, a tank of carpet. It was furnished or decorated with professional completeness, densely184 arranged. This, if you allowed it to, gave pain. Sammler had known the late Mrs. Gruner's decorator. Or stultifies186. Croze. Croze was petit, but had the strength of an art personality. He stood like a thrush. His little belly came far forward and lifted his trousers well above the ankles. His face had lovely color, his hair was barbered to the shapely little head, he had a rosebud187 mouth, and after you shook hands with Croze, your own hand was all day perfumed. He was creative. Capable of criminal acts, probably. All this was his creation. Here many boring hours had occurred, especially after family dinners. it wouldn't be a bad custom to send these furnishings into the tomb with the deceased, Egyptian style. However, here they all were, these spoils of silk, leather, glass, and antique wood. Here Sammler led the hairy Dr.Lal, a small man, very dark. Not black, sharp-nosed, the Dravidian type, dolichocephalic, but round-featured. Probably from Punjab. He had thin and hairy wrists, ankles, legs. He was a dandy. A macaroni (Sammler could not surrender the old words it had given him so much pleasure in Cracow to pick up from eighteenth-century books). Yes Govinda was a beau. He was also sensitive, intelligent, nervous, keen, a handsome, elegant, birdy man. One major incongruity188. the round face enlarged by soft but strong beard. Behind, thin shoulder blades stuck through the linen189 blazer. He had a stoop.
"Where is your daughter, may I ask?"
"Coming down. I will ask Margotte to fetch her. She was frightened by your detective."
"He was clever to find her at all. Ingenious work. He did his job."
"No doubt, but with my daughter Pinkerton methods did not apply. Because of Poland, you see, and the war police. She was hidden. So she panicked. Too bad you have had to suffer for it. But what can one do if she is somewhat . . . ?"
"Psycho?"
"That's putting it strongly. She's not entirely out of touch. She made a copy of your manuscript, and she took two lockers in Grand Central Station for copy and original. Here are the keys."
Lal's hand, long and thin, accepted them.
"How can I be sure it's really there, my book?" he said. "
"Dr. Lal, I know my daughter. I feel quite certain. Safe in fireproof steel. In fact, I'm glad she didn't bring the book on the train. She might have lost it—forgotten it on the seat. Grand Central is well lighted, policed, and even if one lock were to be picked by thieves, there would still be the other. Have no further anxiety. I see you are on edge. You can consider this disagreeable misadventure over. The manuscript is safe. "
"Sir, I hope so."
"Let us have a sip of brandy. We have had some trying days."
"Agonizing190. Somehow the kind of terror I anticipated in America. My first visit. I had an intuition."
"Has America been all like that?"
"Not altogether. But almost."
Noisy in the kitchen, Margotte was opening cans, taking down bowls, slamming the icebox, clattering191 the flatware. Margotte's household doings were in continual transmission.
"I could take the train to New York," said Lal.
"Margotte can't drive. What will you do with the Hertz car?"
"Oh, damn! The car! Bloody192 machines!"
"I regret I can't drive," Sammler said. "Not to drive is the latest snobbery193, I am told. But I am innocent of that. It is my eyesight."
"I'd have to come back for Mrs. Arkin."
"You might surrender your Hertz in New Rochelle, but I doubt that they are open at night. There must be a Penn Central timetable. However, it's close to midnight. We could ask Wallace to take you to the train, if he hasn't slipped out the back way—Wallace Gruner," he explained. "We are in the Gruner house. My relative—my nephew by a half-sister. But first let us have the supper Margotte is preparing. What you said before interested me, your presentiments194 about the U.S.? Twenty-two years ago, my own arrival was a relief."
Of course in a sense the whole world is now U.S. Inescapable ," said Govinda Lal. "It's like a big crow that has snatched our future from the nest, and we, the rest, are like little finches in pursuit trying to peck it. However, the Apollo flights are American. I have been employed by NASA. On other research. But this is where my ideas will count, if they are any use. . . . If I sound strange, excuse me. I've been distressed195."
"With good reason. My daughter did you a real injury."
"I am beginning to feel easier. I don't think any hard feelings will remain."
Through the tinted196 lens and while breathing brandy fumes197, Sammler provisionally approved of Govinda Lal, who reminded him in some ways of Ussher Arkin. Very often, oftener than he consciously knew, and vividly198, he thought of Ussher underground, in this or that posture199, of this or that color or physical condition. As he thought of Antonina, his wife. So far as he knew the enormous grave had never been touched again. From which he himself, scratching dirt, pushing the corpses, came out choked with blood, and crept away on his belly. This preoccupation therefore was only to be expected.
Now Margotte was chopping onions in a bowl. Something to eat. Life in its lighted droplet200 cells continued its enactments201. Poor Ussher in that plane at the Cincinnati airport. Sammler missed him and acknowledged that he had moved into the apartment with Margotte because of the contact with Ussher it afforded.
But he noted202 some of the same qualities, Arkin's qualities, in this very different, duskier, smaller, bushier Lal, whose wrist was no wider than a ruler.
Then Shula-Slawa came down the stairs. Lal, who saw her first, had an expression which made Sammler immediately turn. She had dressed herself in a sari, or something like it, had found a piece of Indian material in a drawer. It couldn't have been correctly wrapped. It also covered her head. Especially at the bust there was an error. (Sammler with increased concern this evening for the sensitivity of that area; if there was danger of exposure or of hurt, he felt it in his own organs.) He wasn't sure that she was wearing undergarments. No, there was no Büstenhalter. She was extremely white—citrus-thick skin, cream cheeks—and her lips, looking fuller and softer than ever, were painted a peculiar orange color. Like the Neapolitan cyclamens Sammler had admired in the botanical garden. Also, she wore false eyelashes. On her forehead was a Hindu spot made with the lipstick203. Exactly where the Ash Wednesday smudge had been. The general idea was to charm and appease37 this angry Lal. Her eyes as she hurried, without looking, into the well of the room were heated, and in the old man's words to himself, kookily dilated204, sensuality-bent. Though ladylike, she made too many gestures, coming forward too much, wildly overprompt, having too much by far to say.
"Professor Lal!"
"My daughter."
"Yes, so I thought."
"I am sorry. So terribly sorry, Dr. Lal. There was a misunderstanding. You were surrounded by people. You must have thought you were just letting me look at the manuscript. But I thought you were letting me take it home to my father. As I said, you remember? That he was writing the book about H. G. Wells?"
Wells? No. But my impression is that he is very obsolete205."
"Still, for the sake of science, of science, and for the sake of literature and history, because my father is writing this important history, and you see I help him in his intellectual cultural work. There's nobody else to do it. I never meant to make trouble."
No. Not trouble. Only to dig a pit and cover it with brushwood, and when a man fell into it to lie flat on the ground and converse206 with him amorously207. For Sammler now suspected that she had run away with The Future of the Moon in order to create this very opportunity, this meeting. Were he and Wells really secondary, then? Was it really done to provoke interest? Wasn't that a familiar stratagem208? To him, Sammler remembered, women used sometimes to act insolent209 to get his attention and say stinging things imagining that it made them fascinating. Was this why Shula had taken the book? Out of female seductiveness ? One species: but the sexes like two different savage tribes. In full paint. Surprising and shocking each other in the bush. This Govinda, this light spry whiskered dark frail210, flying sort of a man—an intellectual. And intellectuals she was mad for. They kept the world remarkable beneath that visiting moon. They kindled211 up her womb. Even Eisen, perhaps, to recover her esteem212 (among other reasons), had left the foundry and turned artist. Had probably lost track of the original motive213, to show that he was, like her father, a man of culture. And now he was a painter. Poor Eisen.
But Shula was sitting very close to Lal on the sofa, almost taking him by the hand, by the arm, as if bent upon having a touch of his limbs. She was assuring him that she had reproduced his manuscript with great care. She worried lest the Xerox127 take away the ink and wipe the pages blank. She did page one dying of anxiety. "Such a special ink you use, and what if there should be a bad reaction . I would have died." But it worked beautifully. Mr. Widick said it was lovely copying. And it was in the two lockers. The copy was in a legal binder214. Mr. Widick said you could even leave ransom215 money in Grand Central. Perfectly safe. Shula wanted Govinda Lal to see that the orange circle between the eyes had lunar significance. She kept tilting216 her face, offering her brow.
"Now, Shula, my dear," said Sammler. "Margotte needs help in the kitchen. Go and help her."
"Oh, Father."
She tried, speaking aside in Polish, to tell him she wished to stay.
"Shula! Go! Go on now—go!
As she obeyed, her cheeks had a hot and bitter look. Before Lal she wanted to show filial submission217, but her behind was huffy as she went.
"I would never have recognized, never have identified her," said Lal.
"Yes? Without the wig218. She often affects a wig."
He stopped. Govinda was thinking. Presumably about the recovery of his work from the locker. Yes. He felt his blazer pockets from beneath, making certain of the keys.
"You are Polish?" he said.
"I was Polish."
"Artur?"
"Yes. Like Schopenhauer, whom my mother read. Arthur, at that period, not very Jewish, was the most international, enlightened name you could give a boy. The same in all languages. But Schopenhauer didn't care for Jews. He called them vulgar optimists220. Optimists? Living near the crater221 of Vesuvius, it is better to be an optimist219. On my sixteenth birthday my mother gave me The World as Will and Idea. Naturally it was an agreeable compliment that I could be so serious and deep. Like the great Arthur. So I studied the system, and I still remember it. I learned that only Ideas are not overpowered by the Will—the cosmic force, the Will, which drives all things. A blinding power. The inner creative fury of the world. What we see are only its manifestations223. Like Hindu philosophy—Maya, the veil of appearances that hangs over all human experience. Yes, and come to think of it, according to Schopenhauer, the seat of the Will in human beings is . . ."
"Where is it?"
"The organs of sex are the seat of the Will."
The thief in the lobby agreed. He took out the instrument of the Will. He drew aside not the veil of Maya itself but one of its forehangings and showed Sammler his metaphysical warrant.
"And you were a friend of the famous H. G. Wells—that much is true, isn't it?"
"I don't like to claim the friendship of a man who is not alive to affirm or deny it, but at one time, when he was in his seventies, I saw him often."
"Ah, then you must have lived in London."
"So we did, in Woburn Square near the British Museum. I took walks with the old man. In those days my own ideas didn't amount to much so I listened to his. Scientific humanism, faith in an emancipated future, in active benevolence224, in reason, in civilization. Not popular ideas at the moment. Of course we have civilization but it is so disliked. I think you understand what I mean, Professor Lal."
"I believe I do, yes."
"Still, you know, Schopenhauer would not have called Wells a vulgar optimist. Wells had many dark thoughts. Take a book like The War of the Worlds. There the Martians come to get rid of mankind. They treat our species as Americans treated the bison and other animals, or for that matter the American Indians. Extermination225."
"Ah, extermination. I assume you have some personal acquaintance with the phenomenon?"
"I do have some, yes."
"Indeed?" said Lal. "I have seen some of it myself. As a Punjabi."
"You are a Punjabi?"
"Yes, and in nineteen forty-seven studying at the University in Calcutta and present at the terrible riots, the fighting of Hindus and Moslems. Since called the great Calcutta killing. I am afraid I have seen homicidal maniacs226."
"Ah."
"Yes, and slaying227 with loaded sticks and sharp iron bars. And the corpses. Rape228, arson229, looting."
"I see."
Sammler looked at him. An intelligent and sensitive man, this was, with an expressive face. Of course such expressiveness230 was sometimes a sign of subjectivity231 and of inward mental habits. Not an outgoing imagination. He was beginning to think, however, that this Lal was, like Ussher Arkin, a man he could talk to. "Then it is not a theoretical matter to you. Nor to me. But excellent goodhearted gentlemen, Mr. Arnold Bennett, Mr. H. G. Wells, lunching at the Savoy , . . Olympians of lowerclass origin. So nice. So serious. So English, Mr. Wells. I was flattered to be chosen to listen to his monologues232. I was also fond of him. Of course since Poland, nineteen thirty-nine, my judgments234 are different. Altered. Like my eyesight. I see you trying to observe what is behind these tinted glasses. No, no, that's quite all right. One eye is functioning. Like the old saying about the one-eyed being King in the Country of the Blind. Wells wrote a story around this. Not a good story. Anyway, I am not in the Country of the Blind, but only one-eyed. As for Wells . . . he was a writer. He wrote and wrote and wrote."
Sammler thought that Govinda was about to speak. When he paused, several waves of silence passed, containing tacit questions: You? No, you, sir: You speak. Lal was listening. The sensitivity of a hairy creature; the animal brown of his eyes; the good breeding of his attentive235 posture.
"You wish me to say more about Wells, since Wells is in a way behind all this?"
"Would you, kindly?" said Lal. "You have doubts about the value of Wells's writing."
"Yes, of course I have. Grave doubts. Through universal education and cheap printing poor boys have become rich and powerful. Dickens, rich. Shaw, also. He boasted that reading Karl Marx made a man of him. I don't know about that, but Marxism for the great public made him a millionaire. If you wrote for an elite29, like Proust, you did not become rich, but if your theme was social justice and your ideas were radical236 you were rewarded by wealth, fame, and influence."
"Most interesting."
"Do you find it so? Excuse me, I am heavy-hearted this evening. Both heavy-hearted and talkative. And when I meet someone I like, I am apt to be garrulous at first."
"No, no, please continue this explanation."
"Explanation? I have an objection to extended explanations. There are too many. This makes the mental life of mankind ungovernable. But I have thought about the Wells matter—the Shaw matter, and about people like Marx, Jean Jacques Rousseau, Marat, Saint-Just, powerful speakers, writers, starting out with no capital but mental capital and achieving an immense influence. And all the rest, little lawyers, readers, bluffers, pamphleteers, amateur scientists , bohemians, librettists, fortune tellers237, charlatans239, outcasts , buffoons240. A crazy provincial241 lawyer demanding the head of the King, and getting it, too. In the name of the people. Or Marx, a student, a fellow from the University, writing books which overwhelm the world. He was really an excellent journalist and publicist. As I was a journalist myself, I am a judge of his ability. Like many journalists, he made things up out of other newspaper articles, the European press, but he made them up extremely well, writing about India or the American Civil War, matters of which he actually knew nothing. But he was marvelously shrewd, a guesser of genius, a powerful polemicist242 and rhetorician. His ideological244 hashish was very potent245. Anyhow, you see what I mean—people become authoritative246 and plebeians247 of genius elevate themselves first to nobility and then to universal glory, and all because they had what all poor children got from literacy: the ABCs, the dictionary, the grammar books, the classics. Until, soaring from their slums or their little petit-bourgeois248 parlors249, they were addressing worldwide millions. These are the people who set the terms, who make up the discourse250, and then history follows their words. Think of the wars and revolutions we have been scribbled251 into."
The Indian press had much responsibility for those riots, certainly," said Lal.
"One thing in Wells's favor was that because of personal disappointments he at least did not demand the sacrifice of civilization. He did not become a cult18-figure, a royal personality, a grand art hero or activist252 leader. He did not feel disgraced by words. Many did and do."
"Meaning what, sir?"
"Well you see," said Mr. Sammler, "in the great bourgeois period, writers became aristocrats253. And having become aristocrats through their skill in words, they felt obliged to go into action. Evidently it's a disgrace for true nobility to substitute words for acts. You can see this in the career of Monsieur Malraux, or Monsieur Sartre. You can see it much farther back in Hamlet when he feels that humiliation254, Dr. Lal, saying, 'I . . . must like a whore unpack255 my heart with words."
"'And fall a-cursing like a very drab.'"
"Yes, that is the full quotation257. Or to Polonius, 'Words, words, words. Words are for the elderly, or for the young who are old-in-heart. Of course this is the condition of a prince whose father has been murdered. But when people out of a contempt for impotence and paralyzed talk throw themselves into noble actions, do they know what they are doing? When they being to call for blood, and advocate terror, or proclaim a general egg- breaking to make a great historical omelet, do they know what they are calling for? When they have struck a mirror with a hammer, aiming to repair it, can they put the fragments together again? Well, Dr. Lal, I am not sure what good this examination or rebuke258 can do. It is not as if I were certain that human beings can be controlled at any level of complexity259. I would not swear that mankind was governable. But Wells was inclined to believe that it was. He thought, most of the time, that the minority civilization could be transmitted to the great masses, and that orderly conditions for this transmission were possible. Decent, British-style, Victorian-Edwardian , nonoutcast, nonlunatic, grateful conditions. But in World War Two he despaired. He compared humankind to rats in a sack, desperately261 struggling and biting. Indeed it was ratlike and sacklike. Indeed so. But now I have exhausted262 my interest in Wells. Yours too, I hope, Dr. Lal."
"Ah, you did know the man well," said Lal. "And how clearly you put things. You are a first-rate condenser263. I wish I had your talent. I lacked it sorely when I wrote my book."
"Your book, what I had time to read of it, is very clear."
"I hope you will read it all. Excuse me, Mr. Sammler, I am confused. I don't know quite where Mrs. Arkin has brought me, or where we are. You explained, but I did not follow."
"This is Westchester County, not far from New Rochelle, and the house of my nephew, Dr. Arnold Elya Gruner. At the moment, he is in the hospital."
"I see. Is he very sick?"
"There is an escape of blood in the brain."
"An aneurysm. It can't be reached for surgery?"
"It can't be reached."
"Dear, dear. And you are dreadfully disturbed."
"He will die in a day or two. He is dying. A good man. He brought us from a DP camp, Shula and me, and for twenty-two years he has taken care of us with kindness. Twenty-two years without a day of neglect, without a single irascible word."
"A gentleman."
"Yes, a gentleman. You can see that my daughter and I are not very competent. I did some journalism265, until about fifteen years ago. It was never much. Recently I wrote a Polish report on the war in Israel. But it was Dr. Gruner who paid my way."
"He simply let you be a kind of philosopher?"
"If that is what I am. I am familiar with many explanations of things. To tell the truth, I am tired of most of them."
"Ah, you have an eschatological point of view, then. How Interesting."
Sammler, not much caring for the word "eschatological," shrugged266. "You think we should go into space, Dr. Lal?"
"You are very sad about your nephew. Perhaps you would prefer not to talk."
"Once you begin talking, once the mind takes to this way of turning, it keeps turning, and it dips through all events. And perhaps it makes matters slightly more tolerable to let it turn. Though I can't see why they should be tolerable. It is really a frightful267 moment. But what can one do? The thoughts continue turning."
"Like a Ferris wheel," said fragile, black-bearded Govinda Lal. "I should say that I have done work for Worldwide Technics, in Connecticut. Mine are highly sophisticated and theoretical assignments having to do with order in biological systems, how complex mechanisms268 reproduce themselves. Though it will not greatly signify to you, I am associated with the bang-bang hypothesis, related to the firing of simultaneous impulses, atomic theories of cellular269 conductivity. As you mentioned Rousseau, man may or may not have been born free. But I can say with assurance that he would not exist without his atomistic chains. I do hope you like my jokes. I enjoy your wit. If not mutual270, that would be too bad. I refer to those chain structures of the cell. These are matters of order, Mr. Sammler. Though I have not the full blueprint271 to present. I am not yet that universal genius. Ha, ha! In earnest, however, biological science is in an extraordinary state of progress. Oh, it is lovely, it is so beautiful! To participate is a privilege. This chemical order, which is a fundamental of life, is of great beauty. Oh, yes, very great. And what a high privilege! It occurred to me as you were speaking of another matter that to desire to live without order is to desire to turn from the fundamental biological governing principle. Which is widely presumed to be there only to free us, a platform for impulse. Are we crazy, or what? From order, from governing principle, the human being can tear himself to express his immense privilege of sheer liberty or unaccountability of impulse. The biological fundamentals are like the peasantry, the whole individual considering himself to be a prince. It is the cigale and the fourmi. The ant was once the hero, but now the grasshopper273 is the whole show. My father taught me maths and French. The chief anxiety of my father’s life was that his students would cut up the Encyclopedia274 Britannica with razors and take the articles with them for home perusal275. He was a simple person. Because of him, I have loved French literature. First in Calcutta, and then in Manchester, I studied it until my scientific interests matured. But as to your question about space. There is, of course, much objection to these expeditions. Accusation276 that it is money taken from school, slum, and so on, of course. Just as the Pentagon money is withheld277 from social improvements. What nonsense! It is propaganda by the social-science bureaucracy. They would hog278 the funds. Besides, money alone does not necessarily make the difference, does it? I think not. The Americans have always been reckless spenders. Bad, no doubt, but there is such a thing as fruitful gaspillage. Wastefulness279 can be justified280 if it permits inventiveness, originality281, adventure. Unfortunately, the results are mostly and usually corrupt282, making vile272 profits, playboy recreations, and building reactionary283 fortunes. As far as Washington is concerned, a moon expedition no doubt is superb PR. It is show biz. My slang may not be current."
The rich and Oriental voice was very pleasing.
"I am not a good authority."
"You know, however, what I have in mind. Circuses. Dazzlement. The U.S. becoming the greatest dispenser of science-fiction entertainments. As far as the organizers and engineers are concerned, it is a vast opportunity, but that is not of high theoretical value. Still, at the same time something serious happens within. The soul most certainly feels the grandeur284 of this achievement. Not to go where one can go may be stunting285. I believe the soul feels it, and therefore it is a necessity. It may introduce new sobriety. Naturally the technology will impress minds more than the personalities286. The astronauts may not seem so very heroic. More like superchimpanzees. Especially if they do not express themselves beautifully. But after all, this is the function of poets. If any. But even the technicians I venture to guess will be ennobled. But do you agree, sir, that we should go into space?"
"Well, why not? Up to a point, yes. Although I don't think it can be rationally justified."
"Why not? I can think of many justifications287. I see it as a rational necessity. You should have finished my book."
"Then I would have found the irresistible288 proof?" Sammler smiled through the tinted glasses, and the blind eye attempted to participate. In the old black and neat suit, his stiff and slender body upright and his fingers, which trembled strongly under strain, lightly holding his knees. A cigarette (he smoked only three or four a day) burned between his awkward hairy knuckles290.
"I simply mean you would be acquainted with my argument, which I base in part on U.S. history. After 1776 there was a continent to expand into, and this space absorbed all the mistakes. Of course I am not a historian. But if one cannot make bold guesses, one will have to surrender all to the experts. Europe after 1789 did not have the space for its mistakes. Result: war and revolution, with the revolutions ending up in the hands of the madmen."
"De Maistre said that."
"Did he? I don't know much about him."
"It may be enough to know that he agrees. Revolutions do end up in the hands of madmen. Of course there are always enough madmen for every purpose. Besides, if the power is great enough, it will make its own madmen by its own pressure. Power certainly corrupts291, but that statement is humanly incomplete. Isn't it too abstract? What should certainly be added is the specific truth that having power destroys the sanity151 of the powerful. It allows their irrationalities to leave the sphere of dreams and come into the real world. But there—excuse me. I am am no psychologist. As you say, however, one must be allowed to make guesses."
"Perhaps it is natural that an Indian should be supersensitive to a surplus of humanity. Calcutta is so teeming293, so volcanic294. A Chinese would be similarly sensitive. Any nation of vast multitudes. We are crowded in, packed in, now, and human beings must feel that there is a way out, and that the intellectual power and skill of their own species opens this way. The invitation to the voyage, the Baudelaire desire to get out—get out of human circumstances—or the longing86 to be a drunken boat, or a soul whose craving295 is to crack open a closed universe is still real, only the impulse does not have to be assigned to tiresomeness297 and vanity of life, and it does not necessarily have to be a death-voyage. The trouble is that only trained specialists will be able to take the trip. The longing soul cannot by direct impulse go because it has the boundless need, or the mind for it, or the suffering-power. It will have to know engineering and wear those peculiar suits, and put up with personal, organic embarrassments298. Perhaps the problems of radiation will prove insuperable, or strange diseases will be contracted on other worlds. Still, there is a universe into which we can overflow299. Obviously we cannot manage with one single planet. Nor refuse the challenge of a new type of experience. We must recognize the extremism and fanaticism301 of human nature. Not to accept the opportunity would make this Earth seem more and more a prison. If we could soar out and did not, we would condemn302 ourselves. We would be more than ever irritated with life. As it is, the species is eating itself up. And now Kingdom Come is directly over us and waiting to receive the fragments of a final explosion. Much better the moon.
Sammler did not think that must necessarily happen.
"Do you think the species doesn't want to live?" he said.
"Many wish to end it," said Lal.
"Well, if as you say we are the kind of creature which is compelled to do what it is capable of doing, it would follow that we must demolish303 ourselves. But isn't that up to the species? Could we say that at this point politics is anything but pure biology? In Russia, in China, and here, very mediocre304 people have the power to end life altogether. These representatives—not representatives of the best but Calibans or, in the jargon305, creeps—will decide for us all whether we live or die. Man now plays the drama of universal death. Should all not die at once, together, like one great individual death, expressing freely all of man's passions toward his doom306? Many say they wish to end it. Of course that may be only rhetoric243."
"Mr. Sammler," said Lal, "I believe you intimate that there is an implicit307 morality in the will-to-live and that these mediocrities in office will do their duty by the species. I am not sure. There is no duty in biology. There is no sovereign obligation to one's breed. When biological destiny is fulfilled in reproduction the desire is often to die. We please ourselves in extracting ideas of duty from biology. But duty is pain. Duty is hateful—misery310, oppressive."
"Yes?" said Sammler, in doubt. "When you know what pain is, you agree that not to have been born is better. But being born one respects the powers of creation, one obeys the will of God—with whatever inner reservations truth imposes. As for duty—you are wrong. The pain of duty makes the creature upright, and this uprightness is no negligible thing. No, I stand by what I first said. There is also an instinct against leaping into Kingdom Come."
The scene, for such a conversation, was itself curious—the green carpets, large pots, silk drapes of the late Hilda Gruner's living room. Here Govinda Lal, small, hunched311, dusky, with his rusty-gilt complexion312, his full face and beard, was like an Oriental ornament313 or painting. Sammler himself came under this influence, like a figure in Indian color—the red cheeks, the spreading white hair at the back, the circles of his specs, and the cigarette smoke about his hair. To Wallace he had insisted that he was an Oriental, and now felt that he resembled one.
"As for the present state of affairs," said Govinda, "I see that personal dissatisfaction, which is so great, may contribute energy to the biggest job which fate has secretly prepared-earth-departure. It may be the compression preceding the new expansion. To hurl314 yourself toward the moon, you may need an equal and opposite inertia315. An inertia at least two hundred fifty thousand miles deep. Or more. We moreover seem to have it. Who knows how these things work? You know the famous Oblomov? He couldn't get out of bed. This phantom316 of inertia or paralysis317. The opposite was frantic318 activism—bomb-throwing, civil war, a cult of violence? You have mentioned that. Do we always, always to the point of misery, do a thing? Persist until exhausted ? Perhaps. Take my own temperament319, for instance. I confess to you, Mr. Sammler (and how glad I am that your daughter's peculiarities have brought us together—I think we shall be friends) . . . I confess that I am originally—originally, you understand—of a melancholy, depressed320 character. As a child, I could not bear to be separated from Mother. Nor, for that matter, Father, who was, as I said, a teacher of French and mathematics. Nor the house, nor playmates. When visitors had to leave, I would make violent scenes. I was an often-sobbing little boy. All parting was such an emotional ordeal321 that I would get sick. I must have felt separation as far inward as my constituent322 molecules323, and trembled in billions of nuclei324. Hyperbole? Perhaps, my dear Mr. Sammler. But I have been convinced since my early work in biophysics of vascular325 beds (I will not trouble you with details) that nature, more than an engineer, is an artist. Behavior is poetry, is metaphorical326 order, is metaphysics. From the high-frequency tenths-of-millisecond brain responses in corticothalamic nets to the grossest of ecological328 phenomena329, it is all the printing out, in mysterious code, of sublime metaphor327. I am speaking of my own childhood passions, and the body of an individual is electronically denser264 than the tropical rain forest is dense185 with organisms. And all these existences are, it often suggests itself, poems. I do not even try to overcome this impression of universal poetry any more. But to return to the question of my own personality, I see now that I had set myself a task of distance from objects of closest attachment330 . In which, Mr. Sammler, outer space is an opposite—personally, an emotional pole. One is born between his mother's legs, afterward331 persisting outward. To see the sidereal332 archipelagoes is one thing, but to plunge333 into them, into a dayless, nightless universe, why that, you see, makes sea-depth petty, the leviathan no more than a polliwog—"
Margotte came in—short, thick, rapid, efficient legs, but drying her hands ineptly334 in both skirt and apron—saying, "We will all feel better when we eat something. For you, Uncle, we have lobster335 salad, and some Crosse and Blackwell onion soup and bauernbrot and butter, and coffee. Dr. Lal, I assume you are not a meat eater. Do you like cottage cheese?"
"If you please, no fish."
"But where is Wallace?" said Sammler.
"Oh, he went up with tools to fix something in the attic336." She smiled as she returned to the kitchen, smiled especially at Govinda Lal.
Lal said, "I am very much taken with Mrs. Arkin."
Sammler thought, She intended, sight unseen, that you should be taken with her. I can give you pointers on being happy with her. I'll lose my sanctuary337, perhaps, but I can give that up if this is serious. With an outer-space perspective perhaps immediate urgencies and egoism are lessened338 and marriage would be a kindly association—sub specie aeternitatis. Besides, though small, Govinda was in certain ways like Ussher Arkin. Women do not like too much change.
"Margotte is an excellent person," said Sammler.
"That is my impression. And exceedingly, highly attractive. Has her husband been dead long?"
"Three years, poor fellow."
"Poor fellow indeed, to die young, and with such a desirable wife."
"Come, I am hungry," said Sammler. Already he was considering how to take Shula out of this. She was smitten339 with this Indian. Had her desires. Needs. Was a woman, after all. What could one do for a woman? Little, very little. Or, for Elya, with the spray bubbling in his head? Terrible. Elya reappeared strangely and continually, as if his face were orbiting—as if he were a satellite.
However, they sat down to a little supper in Elya's kitchen, and the conversation continued.
Now that Sammler had been charmed by Govinda and seen, or imagined, a resemblance to Ussher Arkin, and was affectionately committed, it went with his habit of mind to see him also in another aspect, as an Eastern curiosity, a bushy little planet-buzzing Oriental demon340, mentally rebounding341 from limits like a horsefly from glass. Wondering if the fellow might be a charlatan238, in some degree. No, no, not that. One had no time to make funny observations, or paltry342 ones; one must be decisive and trust one's instincts. Lal was the real thing. His conversation was conversation, it was not a line. This was no charlatan, only an oddity. He was excellent, solid. His one immediately apparent weakness was to want his credentials343 known. He let fall names and titles—the Imperial College, his intimate friend Professor Waddington, his position as hunch-consultant with Professor Hoyle, his connection with Dr. Feltstein of NASA, and his participation in the Bellagio conference on theoretical biology. This was pardonable in a little foreigner. The rest was perfectly straight. Of course it amused Sammler that he and Lal spoke344 such different brands of foreign English, and it was also diverting that they were tall and short. To him height meant meant pituitary hyperactivity and maybe vital wastage. The large sometimes seemed to have diminished minds, as if the shooting up cost the brain something. Strangest of all in the eighth decade of one's life, however, was a spontaneous feeling of friendship. At his age? That was for your young person, still dreaming of love, of meeting someone of the opposite sex who would cure you of all your troubles, heart and soul, and for whom you would cure and fulfill308 the same. From this came a disposition345 for sudden attachments346 such as you now saw in Lal, Margotte, and Shula. But for himself, at his time of life and because he had come back from the other world, there were no rapid connections. His own first growth of affections had been consumed. His onetime human, onetime precious, life had been burnt away. More green growth rising from the burnt black would simply be natural persistency347, the Life Force working, trying to start again.
However, while this little supper in the kitchen (laid on with Margotte's maladroit348 bounty) lasted, the sad old man experienced the utmost joy, too. It seemed to him that the others also felt as he did: Shula-Slaws in her misbound sari following the conversation with devoted349 eyes and mumming every word with soft orange-painted lips, leaning her head on her palm; Margotte, delighted of course; she was gone on this little Hindu; the occasion was intellectual, and moreover she was feeding everyone. Could any instant of life be nicer? To Sammler these female oddities were endearing.
Dr. Lal was saying that we did not get much from our brains, considering what brains were, electronically, with billions of instantaneous connections. "What goes on within a man's head," he said, "is far beyond his comprehension, of course. In very much the same way as a lizard350 or a rat or a bird cannot comprehend being organisms. But a human being, owing to dawning comprehension, may well feel that he is a rat who lives in a temple. In his external development, as a thing, a creature, in cerebral351 electronics he enjoys an adaptation, a fitness which makes him feel the unfitness of his personal human efforts. Therefore, at the lowest, a rat in a temple. At best, a clumsy thing, with dawning awareness352 of the finesse353 of internal organization employed in crudities."
"Yes," said Mr. Sammler, "that is a very nice way to put it, though I am not sure that there are many people so fine that they can feel this light weight of being so much more than they can grasp."
"I should be extremely interested to hear your views," said Lal.
"My views?"
"Oh, yes, Papa."
"Yes, dear Uncle Sammler."
"My views."
A strange thing happened. He felt that he was about to speak his full mind. Aloud! That was the most striking part of it. Not the usual self-communing of an aged and peculiar person. He was about to say what he thought, and viva voce.
"Shula is fond of lectures, I am not," he said. "I am extremely skeptical354 of explanations, rationalistic practices. I dislike the modern religion of empty categories, and people who make the motions of knowledge."
"View it as a recital355 rather than a lecture," said Lal. "Consider the thing from a musical standpoint."
"A recital. It is Dr. Lal who should give it—he has a musical voice. A recital—that is more inviting," said Sammler putting his cup down. "Recitals356 are for trained performers. I am not ready for the stage. But there isn't much time. So, ready or not . . . I keep my own counsel much too much, and I am tempted289 to pass on some of my views. Or impressions. Of course, the old always fear they have decayed unaware357. How do I know I have not? Shula, who thinks her papa is a powerful wizard, and Margotte, who likes discussion of ideas so much, they will deny it."
"Of course," said Margotte. "It simply is not so."
"Well, I have seen it happen to others, why not to me? One must live with all combinations of the facts. I remember a famous anecdote358 about a demented man: Someone said, 'You are a paranoiac359, my dear fellow,' and he answered, 'Perhaps, but that doesn't prevent people from plotting against me.' That is an important ray of light from a dark source. I can't say that I have felt any weakness in the head, but it may be there. Luckily, my views are short. I suppose, Dr. Lal, that you are right. Biologically, chemically, the subtlety360 of the creature is beyond the understanding of the creature. We have an inkling of it, and feel how, by comparison, the internal state is so chaotic361, such a hodgepodge of odi et amo. They say our protoplasm is like sea water. Our blood has a Mediterranean362 base. But now we live in a social and human sea. Inventions and ideas bathe our brains, which sometimes, like sponges, must receive whatever the currents bring and digest the mental protozoa. I do not say there is no alternative to such passivity, which is partly comical, but there are times, states, in which we lie under and feel the awful volume of cumulative363 consciousness, we feel the weight of the world. Not at all funny. The world is a terror, certainly, and mankind in a revolutionary condition becoming, as we say, modern—more and more mental, the realm of nature, as it used to be called, turning into a park, a zoo, a botanical garden, a world's fair, an Indian reservation. And then there are always human beings who take it upon themselves to represent or interpret the old savagery364, tribalism, the primal365 fierceness of the fierce, lest we forget prehistory, savagery, animal origins. It is even said, here and there, that the real purpose of civilization is to permit us all to live like primitive366 people and lead a neolithic367 life in an automated368 society. That is a droll369 point of view. I don't want to lecture you, however. If one lives in his room, as I do, though Shula and Margotte take such excellent care of me, one has fantasies about addressing a captive audience. Very recently, I tried to give a speech at Columbia. It did not go well. I think I made a fool of myself."
"Oh, but please continue," said Dr. Lal. "We are most attentive."
"A person's views are either necessary or superfluous370," said Sammler. "The superfluous irritates me sharply. I am an extremely impatient individual. My impatience371 sometimes borders on rage. It is clinical."
"No, no, Papa."
"However, it is sometimes necessary to repeat what all know. All mapmakers should place the Mississippi in the same location, and avoid originality. It may be boring, but one has to know where he is. We cannot have the Mississippi flowing toward the Rockies for a change. Now, as everyone knows, it has only been in the last two centuries that the majority of people in civilized372 countries have claimed the privilege of being individuals. Formerly373 they were slave, peasant, laborer374, even artisan, but not person. It is clear that this revolution, a triumph for justice in many ways—slaves should be free, killing toil76 should end, the soul should have liberty—has also introduced new kinds of grief and misery, and so far, on the broadest scale, it has not been altogether a success. I will not even talk about the Communist countries, where the modern revolution has been most thwarted375. To us the results are monstrous376. Let us think only about our own part of the world. We have fallen into much ugliness. It is bewildering to see how much these new individuals suffer, with their new leisure and liberty. Though I feel sometimes quite disembodied, I have little rancor and quite a lot of sympathy. Often I wish to do something, but it is a dangerous illusion to think one can do much for more than a very few."
"What is one supposed to do?" said Lal.
"Perhaps the best is to have some order within oneself. Better than what many call love. Perhaps it is love."
"Please do say something about love," said Margotte.
"But I don't want to. What I was saying you see I am getting old. I was saying that this liberation into individuality has not been a great success. For a historian of great interest, but for one aware of the suffering it is appalling377. Hearts that get no real wage, souls that find no nourishment378 . Falsehoods, unlimited. Desire, unlimited. Possibility, unlimited. Impossible demands upon complex realities, unlimited. Revival379 in childish and vulgar form of ancient religious ideas, mysteries, utterly380 unconscious of course astonishing. Orphism, Mithraism, Manichaeanism, Gnosticism. When my eye is strong, I sometimes read in the Hastings Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics381. Many fascinating resemblances appear. But one notices most a peculiar play-acting309, an elaborate and sometimes quite artistic382 manner of presenting oneself as an individual and a strange desire for originality, distinction, interest—yes, interest! A dramatic derivation from models, together with the repudiation383 of models. Antiquity384 accepted models, the Middle Ages—I don't want to turn into a history book before your eyes—but modern man, perhaps because of collectivization, has a fever of originality. The idea of the uniqueness of the soul. An excellent idea. A true idea. But in these forms? In these poor forms? Dear God! With hair, with clothes, with drugs and cosmetics385, with genitalia, with round trips through evil, monstrosity, and orgy, with even God approached through obscenities? How terrified the soul must be in this vehemence386, how little that is really dear to it it can see in these Sadic exercises. And even there, the Marquis de Sade in his crazy way was an Enlightenment philosophe. Mainly he intended blasphemy387. But for those who follow (unaware) his recommended practices, the idea no longer is blasphemy, but rather hygiene388, pleasure which is hygiene too, and a charmed and interesting life. An interesting life is the supreme389 concept of dullards.
"Perhaps I am not thinking clearly. I am very sad and torn today. Besides, I am aware of the abnormality of my own experience. Sometimes I wonder whether I have any place here, among other people. I assume I am one of you. But also I am not. I suspect my own judgments because my lot has been extreme. I was a studious young person, not meant for action. Suddenly, it was all action—blood, guns, graves, famine. Very harsh surgery. One cannot come out intact. For a long time I saw things with peculiar hardness. Almost like a criminal—a person who brushes aside flimsy ordinary arrangements and excuses, and simplifies everything brutally390. Not exactly as Mr. Brecht said, Erst kommt das Fressen, and dann kommt die Moral. That is swagger. Aristotle said something like it and did not swagger or act like a bully391. Anyway, by force of circumstances I have had to ask myself simple questions, like 'Will I kill him? Will he kill me? If I sleep, will I ever wake? Am I really alive, or is there nothing left but an illusion of life?' And I know now that humankind marks certain people for death. Against them there shuts a door. Shula and I have been in this written-off category. If you chance nevertheless to live, having been out leaves you with idiosyncrasies. The Germans attempted to kill me. Then the Poles also shot at me. I would have died without Mr. Cieslakiewicz. He was the one man with whom I was not written off. By opening the tomb to me, he let me live. Experience of this kind is deforming392. I apologize to you for the deformity."
"But you are not deformed393."
"I am of course deformed. And obsessed394. You can see that I am always talking about play-acting, originality, dramatic individuality, theatricality395 in people, the forms taken by spiritual striving. It goes round and round in my head, all of this. I cannot tell you how often, for instance, I think about Rumkowski, the mad Jewish King of Lodz."
"Who is that?" said Lal.
"A person thrown into prominence396 in Lodz, the big textile city. When the Germans arrived, they installed in authority this individual. He is still often discussed in refugee circles. Rumkowski was his name. He was a failed businessman. Elderly. A noisy individual, corrupt, director of an orphanage397, a fund-raiser, a bad actor, a distasteful fun-figure in the Jewish community. A man with a bit to play, like so many modern individuals. Have you ever heard of him?"
Lal had not heard of him.
"Well, you shall hear a little. The Nazis398 made him Juden?ltester. The city was fenced off. The ghetto399 became a labor26 camp. The children were seized and deported400 for extermination. There was famine. The dead were brought down to the sidewalk and lay there to wait for the corpse147 wagon401. Amidst all this, Rumkowski was King. He had his own court. He printed money and postage stamps with his picture. He had pageants402 and plays organized in his honor. There were ceremonies to which he wore royal robes, and he drove in a broken coach of the last century, very ornate, gilded, pulled by a dying white nag300. On one occasion he showed courage, protesting the arrest and deportation403, in plain words the murder, of his council. For this he was beaten up and thrown out into the street. But he was a terror to the Jews of Lodz. He was a dictator. He was their Jewish King. A parody404 of the thing—a mad Jewish King presiding over the death of half a million people. Perhaps his secret thought was to save a remnant. Perhaps his mad acting was meant to amuse or divert the Germans. These antics of failed individuality, the grand seigneur or dictatorial405 absurdities—this odd rancor against the evolution of human consciousness, bringing forth406 these struggling selves, horrible clowns, from every hole and corner. Yes, this would have appealed to those people. Humor seldom failed to appear in their murder programs. This harshness toward clumsy pretensions407, toward the bad joke of the self which we all feel. The imaginary grandeur of insects. And besides, the door had been shut against these Jews; they belonged to the category written off. This theatricality of King Rumkowski evidently pleased the Germans. It further degraded the Jews to have a mock king. The Nazis liked that. They had a predilection408 for such Ubu Roi murder farces409. They played at Pataphysics. It lightened or relieved the horror. Here at any rate one can see peculiarly well the question of the forms to be found for the actions of liberated410 consciousness, and the blood-minded hatred, the killers411' delight taken in its failure and abasement412."
"Excuse me, but I have failed to make this connection," said Lal.
"Yes, I am sure I could be more lucid413. It is part of the self-communing obsession414 that I have. But in the Book of Job there is the complaint that God requires far too much. Job protests that he is magnified unbearably—'What is man, that thou shouldst magnify him? And that thou shouldst set thine heart upon him? And that thou shouldst visit him every morning and try him every moment? How long wilt415 thou not depart from me, nor let me alone till I swallow down my spittle?' And saying 'I would not live always.' 'Now I shall sleep in the dust.' This too great demand upon human consciousness and human capacities has overtaxed human endurance. I am not speaking only of moral demand, but also of the demand upon the Imagination to produce a human figure of adequate stature416. What is the true stature of a human being? This, Dr. Lal, was what I meant by speaking of the killers' delight in abasement in parody—in Rumkowski, King of rags and shit, Rumkowski, ruler of corpses. And this is what preoccupies417 me with the theatricality of the Rumkowski episode. Of course the player was doomed418. Many other players, with less agony, have also a sense of doom. As for the others, the large mass of the condemned419, I assume, as they were starving, that they felt less and less. Even starving mothers could not feel for more than a day or two the children torn from them. Hunger pains put out grief. Erst kommt das Fressen, you see.
"Perhaps my sense of connection is faulty. Please tell me if it seems so. My aim is to bring out . . . though the man was perhaps crazy from the start; perhaps shock even made him saner420; in any case, at the end, he voluntarily stepped into the train for Auschwitz . . . to bring out the weakness of the outer forms which are at present available for our humanity, and the pitiable lack of confidence in them. The early result of our modern individuality boom. In such a figure we have the very worst of cases. The most monstrous kind of exaggeration. We see the disintegration421 of the worst ego172 ideas. Such ego ideas taken from poetry, history, tradition, biography, cinema, journalism, advertising422. As Marx pointed out . . ." But he did not say what Marx had pointed out. He thought, and the others did not speak. His food had not been touched. "I understand that old man was very lewd," he said. "He fingered the young girls. His orphans423, perhaps. He knew all would die. Then everything seemed to come out as an efflorescence, a spilling of his 'personality.' Perhaps when people are so desperately impotent they play that instrument, the personality, louder and wilder. It seems to me that I have seen this often. I remember reading in a book, but can't remember where, that when people had found a name for themselves, Human, they spent a lot of time Acting Human, laughing and crying and getting others to laugh and cry, seeking occasions, provoking, taking such relish424 in wringing425 their hands, in drawing tears from their glands426, and swimming and boating in that cloudy, contaminated, confusing, surging medium of human feelings, taking the passion-waters, exclaiming over their fate. This exercise was condemned by the book, especially the lack of originality. The writer preferred intellectual strictness, hated emotion, demanded exalted tears only, tears shed at last, after much resistance, from the most high-minded of recognitions.
"But suppose one dislikes all this theater of the soul? I too find it tiresome296 to have to meet it so often and in such familiar forms. I have read many disagreeable accounts of it. I have seen it described as so much debris427 of the ages, historical junk, dead weight, as bourgeois property, as hereditary428 deformity. The Self may think it wears a gay new ornament, delightfully429 painted, but from outside we see that it is a millstone. Or again, this personality of which the owner is so proud is from the Woolworth store, cheap tin or plastic from the five-and-dime of souls. Seeing it in this way, a man may feel that being human is hardly worth the trouble. Where is the desirable self that one might be? Dov’è sia, as the question is sung in the opera? That depends. It depends in part on the will of the questioner to see merit. It depends on his talent and his disinterestedness430 . It is right that we should dislike contrived431 individuality, bad pastiche432, banality433, and the rest. It is repulsive434. But individualism is of no interest whatever if it does not extend truth. As personal distinction, enhancement, glory, it is for me devoid435 of interest. I care for it only as an instrument for obtaining truth," said Sammler. "But setting this aside for the moment, I think we may summarize my meaning in terms like these: that many have surged forward in modern history, after long epochs of namelessness and bitter obscurity, to claim and to enjoy (as people enjoy things now) a name, a dignity of person, a life such as belonged in the past only to gentry436, nobility, the royalty437 or the gods of myth. And that this surge has, like all such great movements, brought misery and despair, that its successes are not clearly seen, but that the pain of heart it makes many people feel is incalculable, that most forms of personal existence seem to be discredited438, and that there is a peculiar longing for nonbeing. As long as there is no ethical439 life and everything is poured so barbarously and recklessly into personal gesture this must be endured. And there is a peculiar longing for nonbeing. Maybe it is more accurate to say that people want to visit all other states of being in a diffused440 state of consciousness, not wishing to be any given thing but instead to become comprehensive, entering and leaving at will. Why should they be human? In most of the forms offered there is little scope for the great powers of nature in the individual, the abundant, generous powers. In business, in professions, in labor; as a member of the public; as an inhabitant of the cities, these strange pits; as experiencer of compulsions, manipulations; as endurer of strain; as father, husband obliging society by performing his quota256 of actions—the individual seems to feel these powers less, less and less. So it certainly seems to me that he wants a divorce from all the states that he knows.
"It was charged against the Christian that he wanted to get rid of himself. Those that brought the charge urged him to transcend441 his unsatisfactory humanity. But isn't transcendence the same disorder106? Isn't that also getting rid of the human being? Well, maybe man should get rid of himself. Of course. If he can. But also he has something in him which he feels it important to continue. Something that deserves to go on. It is something that has to go on, and we all know it. The spirit feels cheated, outraged442, defiled443 , corrupted444, fragmented, injured. Still it knows what it knows, and the knowledge cannot be gotten rid of. The spirit knows that its growth is the real aim of existence. So it seems to me. Besides, mankind cannot be something else. It cannot get rid of itself except by an act of universal self- destruction. But it is not even for us to vote Yea or Nay157. And I have not stated my arguments, for I argue nothing. I have stated my thoughts. They were asked for, and I wanted to express them. The best, I have found, is to be disinterested. Not as misanthropes445 dissociate themselves, by judging, but by not judging. By willing as God wills.
"During the war I had no belief, and I had always disliked the ways of the Orthodox. I saw that God was not impressed by death. Hell was his indifference446. But inability to explain is no ground for disbelief. Not as long as the sense of God persists. I could wish that it did not persist. The contradictions are so painful. No concern for justice? Nothing of pity? Is God only the gossip of the living? Then we watch these living speed like birds over the surface of a water, and one will dive or plunge but not come up again and never be seen any more. And in our turn we will never be seen again, once gone through that surface. But then we have no proof that there is no depth under the surface. We cannot even say that our knowledge of death is shallow. There is no knowledge. There is longing, suffering, mourning. These come from need, affection, and love—the needs of the living creature, because it is a living creature. There is also strangeness, implicit. There is also adumbration447. Other states are sensed. All is not flatly knowable. There would never have been any inquiry448 without this adumbration, there would never have been any knowledge without it. But I am not life's examiner, or a connoisseur449, and I have nothing to argue. Surely a man would console, if he could. But that is not an aim of mine. Consolers cannot always be truthful163. But very often, and almost daily, I have strong impressions of eternity450. This may be due to my strange experiences, or to old age. I will say that to me this does not feel elderly. Nor would I mind if there were nothing after death. If it is only to be as it was before birth, why should one care? There one would receive no further information. One's ape restiveness451 would stop. I think I would miss mainly my God adumbrations in the many daily forms. Yes, that is what I should miss. So then, Dr. Lal, if the moon were advantageous452 for us metaphysically, I would be completely for it. As an engineering project, colonizing453 outer space, except for the curiosity, the ingenuity454 of the thing, is of little real interest to me. Of course the drive, the will to organize this scientific expedition must be one of those irrational292 necessities that make up life—this life we think we can understand. So I suppose we must jump off, because it is our human fate to do so. If it were a rational matter, then it would be rational to have justice on this planet first. Then, when we had an earth of saints, and our hearts were set upon the moon, we could get in our machines and rise up . . ."
"But what is this on the floor?" said Shula. All four rose about the table to look. Water from the back stairs flowed over the white plastic Pompeian mosaic455 surface. "Suddenly my feet were wet."
"Is it a bath overflowing456?" said Lal.
"Shula, did you turn off the bath?"
"I’m sure and positive I did."
"I believe it is too rapid for bath water," said Lal. "A pipe presumably is burst." Listening, they heard a sound of spraying above, and a steady, rapid tapping, trickling457 cascading458, snaking of water on the staircase. "An open pipe. It sounds a flood." He broke from the table and ran through the large kitchen, the thin hairy fists laid on his chest, his head drawn459 down between thin shoulders.
"Oh, Uncle Sammler, what is it?"
The women followed. Necessarily slower, Sammler also climbed.
Wallace's theory that there were dummy460 pipes in the attic filled with criminal money had been put to the test. Sammler guessed, since Wallace was so mathematical, loved equations, spent nights working out gambling461 odds462, that he had prepared a plumbing463 blueprint before taking up the wrench464.
Treading carefully in dry places became pointless on the second floor. There the carpeted corridor was like a soaked lawn and sucked at Sammler's cracked shoes. The attic door was shut but water ran under it.
"Margotte," said Sammler. "Go down this instant. Call the plumber465 and the fire department. Call the firemen first and tell them you are calling in the plumber. Don't stand. Be quick." He took her arm and turned her toward the door.
Wallace had evidently tried to stuff his shirt into the break. When calculation failed, he fell apart. The garment lay underfoot and he and Lal were trying to bring together the open ends of pipe.
"There's something wrong with the coupling. I must have stripped the threads," said Wallace. He was astride the flowing pipe. Dr. Lal, trying to make the connection, was being sprayed, beard and chest. Shula stood close to him. If great eyes could be mechanical aids—if staring and proximity466 could lead to blending!
"Is there no shutoff? Is there no valve?" said Sammler. "Shula, don't get drenched467. Stand back, my dear, you're in the way "
"I doubt we can accomplish anything by this means," said Lal. The water fizzed loudly.
"You don't think so?" said Wallace.
They spoke very politely.
"Well, no. For one thing there is too much water force. And as you see, this connecting metal cannot be advanced," said Lal. He lowered the pipe and stepped aside. At the waist his gray trousers were black with water. "Do you know the water system here?"
"In what sense do I know it?"
"I mean, is it city-supplied, or do you have a private source? If it is city water, the authorities will have to be called. However, if it is a driven well, there is a pump."
"The odd thing is I never knew."
"What of the sewage, is it municipal?"
"You got me there, too."
"If it is a well and there is a pump there is a switch also. I shall go down. Is there a flashlight?"
"I know the house," said Shula. "I’ll go with you" In the sari, loosely bound, sandals dropping from her eager feet, she hurried after Lal, who ran down the stairs.
Sammler said to Wallace, "Aren't there any buckets? The ceilings will come down."
"There's insurance. Don't worry about ceilings."
"Nevertheless . . ."
Sammler descended468.
Under the kitchen sink and in the broom closet he found yellow plastic pails and climbed back. He recognized that he had the peculiar anxieties of the poor relation. He had certainly disliked this house, always. Found it hard while eating benefactor's bread to be natural here. Besides, all this dense comfort, the rooms crowded with conversation-pieces, attractions, stood on a foundation of nullity. The work of Mr. Croze, with his rosebud mouth, visible nostrils469, Oscar Wilde hairdo, suave470 little belly, and perfumed fingers, who sent, as Elya bitterly said once, as tough and cynical471 a business statement as he had ever seen. Elya conceded he was being fittingly furnished, done right by, but he didn't like being upgraded by Mr. Croze, who dealt in beautiful rewards, in suburban dukedoms for slum boys who made good! Still—a flood! Sammler could not bear it. Besides, it was a typical Wallace production, like the sinking of the limousine in Croton Reservoir, the horse pilgrimage into Soviet472 Armenia, the furnishing of a law office to work crossword473 puzzles in—protests against his father's "valueless" success. There was nothing new in this. Regularly, now, for generations, prosperous families brought forth their anarchistic474 sons—these boy Bakunins, geniuses of liberty, arsonists475, demolishers of prisons, property, palaces. Bakunin had loved fire so. Wallace worked in water, a different medium. And it was very curious (Sammler with the two plastic buckets, which were as yellow and as light as leaves or feathers, had time on the stairs, while the water ran, to entertain the curiosity) that in speaking of his father that afternoon Wallace had said he was hooked like a fish by the aneurysm and jerked into the wrong part of the universe, drowning in air.
"You brought some pails. Let's see if we can't lit them under the pipe. Won't do much good."
"It may do some. You can open a window and spill the water into the gutters476."
"Down the spout477. O.K. But how long can we keep bailing478?"
"Till the fire department comes."
"You called the firemen?"
"Of course. I made Margotte call."
"They'll file a report. That's what the insurance people will go by. I'd better put away these tools. I mean I want this to seem accidental."
"That these pipes just dropped apart? Opened by themselves? Nonsense, Wallace, pipes only burst in winter."
"Yes, I suppose that's right."
"So you thought they were full of thousand-dollar bills. Ah, Wallace!"
"Don't scold me, Uncle. There's loot here somewhere. There is, I swear. I know my father. He's a hider. And what good is the money to him now? He couldn't afford to declare it even if—"
"Even if he were going to live?"
"That's right. And it's like he's turning away from us. Or like a dog in the manger."
"Do you think that's a suitable figure of speech?"
"It wouldn't be suitable for you, but when I say it it doesn't make much difference. I'm a different generation. I never had any dignity to start with. A different set of givens, altogether. No natural feeling of respect. Well, I certainly fucked these pipes up good and proper."
Sammler was considering how much alike Wallace and Shula were, with their misdeeds. You had to stop and turn and waft479 for them. They would not be omitted. Sammler held the second bucket under the splashing pipe. Wallace had gone to empty the first from the dormer, turning back with grimy wet hands, bare-chested, the short black hairs neatly480 symmetrical like a clerical dickey. Arms were long, shoulders white, shapely to no purpose. And with a certain drop of the mouth, smiling at himself, transmitting to Sammler as he had done before the mother's sense of the graceful177 boy, the child's large skull481 and long neck, the clear-lined brows, crisp hair, fine small nose. But, as in certain old paintings, another world was also represented above, and one could imagine on a straight line over Wallace's head symbols of turbulence482: smoke, fire, flying black things. Arbitrary rulings. A sealed judgment233.
"If he would tell me where the dough483 is, it would at least cover the water damage. But he won't, and you won't ask him."
"No. I want no part of it."
"You think I should make my own dough."
"Yes. Label the trees and bushes. Earn your own."
"We will. In fact, that's all I want from the old man, a stake for the equipment. It's his last chance to show confidence in me. To wish me well. To give me like his blessing484. Do you think he loved me?"
"Certainly he loved you."
"As a child. But did he love me as a man?"
"He would have"
"If I had ever been a man according to his idea. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
Sammler, having recourse to one of his blind looks, could always express his thought. Or if you had loved him, Wallace. These are very transitory opportunities. One must be nimble.
"I'm sorry that so late at night you have to be bailing. You must be tired."
"I suppose I am. Dry old people can go on and on. Still, I am beginning to feel it."
"I don't feel so hot myself. How is it downstairs, bad? A lot of water?"
No comment.
"It always turns out like this. Is that my message to the world from my unconscious self?"
"Why send such messages? Censor485 them. Put your unconscious mind behind bars on bread and water."
"No, it's just the mortal way I am. You can't hold it down. It must come out. I hate it too."
Lean Mr. Sammler, delicately applying the light pail to the pipe, while the rapid water splashed.
"I know that Dad had guys up here installing phony connections."
"I would have thought if it was a lot of money the false pipe would be a thick one."
"No, he wouldn't do an obvious thing. You have the wrong image of him. He has a lot of scientific cool. It could have been this pipe. He could have rolled the bills tight and small. He is a surgeon. He has the skill and the patience."
Suddenly the splashing stopped.
"Look! He's shut it off. It's down to a dribble486. Hurray!" said Wallace.
"Dr. Lal!"
"What a relief. He found a turnoff. Who is that fellow?"
"Professor V. Govinda Lal."
"What is he a professor of?"
"Biophysics, I think, is his field."
"Well, he certainly uses his head. It never once occurred to me to find out where our water came from. There must be a well. Can you imagine that! And we've been here since I was ten. June 8, 1949. I’m a Gemini. Lily of the valley is my birth flower. Did you know the lily of the valley was very poisonous? We moved on my birthday. No party. The van got stuck between the gateposts on moving day. So it's not municipal water—I’m so astonished." With his usual lightness, he introduced general considerations. "It's supposed to be a sign of the Mass Man that he doesn't know the difference between Nature and human arrangements. He thinks the cheap commodities—water, electricity, subways, hot dogs—are like air, sunshine, and leaves on the trees."
"Just as simple as that?"
"Ortega y Gasset thinks so. Well, I’d better see what the damage is and get the cleaning woman in."
"You could mop up. Don't let the puddles487 stand all night."
"I don't know the first thing about mopping. I doubt that I ever even held a mop in my hands. But I could spread newspapers. Old Timeses from the cellar. But just one thing, Uncle."
"What thing is that?"
"Don't dislike me on account of this."
"I don't."
"Well, don't look down on me—don't despise me."
"Well, Wallace . . ."
"I know you must. Well, this is like an appeal. I'd like to have your good opinion."
"Are you depressed, Wallace, when things go wrong like this?"
"Less and less."
"You mean you're improving," said Sammler.
"You see, if Angela inherits the house that ends my chances for the money. She'll put the place up for sale, being unmarried. She doesn’t have any sentiment about the old homestead. The roots. Well, neither do I, when you come right down to it. Dad doesn't really like the place himself. No, I don't feel any black gloom about the water damage. Everything is replaceable. At exorbitant488 prices. But the estate will pay the bill, which will be a real gyp. And there's insurance. Possessive emotions are in a transitional phase. I really think they are." Wallace could turn suddenly earnest, but his earnestness lacked weight. Earnestness was probably Wallace's ideal, his true need, but the young man was incapable489 of finding his own essences. "I'll tell you what I'm afraid of, Uncle," he said. "If I have to live on a fixed490 income from a trust it’ll be the end of me. I’ll never find myself then. Do you want me to rot? I need to crash out of the future my father has prepared for me. Otherwise, everything just goes on being possible, and all these possibilities are going to be the death of me. I have to have my own necessities, and I don't see those anywhere. All I see is ten thousand a year, like my father's life sentence on me. I have to bust out while he's still living. When he dies, I'll get so melancholy I won't be able to lift a finger."
"Shall we soak up some of this water?" said Sammler. "Shall we start spreading around the Times?"
"Oh, that can wait. The hell with it. We'll get screwed anyway on the repairs. You know, Uncle, I think I'm just half as smart as a man needs to be to work out these things, so I never get more than halfway491 there."
"So you have no connection with this house—no desire for roots, Wallace. "
"No, of course not. Roots? Roots are not modern. That's a peasant conception, soil and roots. Peasantry is going to disappear. That's the real meaning of the modern revolution, to prepare world peasantry for a new state of existence. I certainly have no roots. But even I am out of date. What I've got is a lot of old wires, and even wires belong to the old technology. The real thing is telemetry. Cybernetics. I've practically decided492, Uncle Sammler, if this enterprise doesn't pan out, with Feffer, that I'll go to Cuba."
"To Cuba, is it? But you aren't a Communist, too, Wallace?"
"Not at all. I do admire Castro, however. He has terrific style, he's a bohemian radical, and he's held his own against Washington superpower. He and his cabinet ride in jeeps. They meet in the sugar cane493."
"What do you want to tell him?"
"It could be important, don't make fun of me, Uncle Sammler. I have ideas about revolution. When the Russians made their revolution, everybody said, 'A leap forward into a new stage of history.' Not at all. The Russian Revolution was a delaying action—ah, my God, what a noise. I'd better run. They could just bash down the door. They have an orgy, these guys, with their axes. And I have to have an alibi494 for the insurance."
He ran.
In the yard the rotating lights swept through the trees, dark red over the lawn, the walls and windows. The bell was slamming, bangalang, and deeper down the road, gulping495 passionate496 shrieks497, approached the mortal-sounding sirens. More engines were arriving. From the attic window Sammler watched as Wallace ran out, his hands raised, explaining to the helmeted men as they sprang in the soft gum boots from the trucks.
Water, they had brought.
Mr. Sammler had some wakeful hours that night. A predictable result of worry over Elya. Of the flood. Also of the conversation with Lal which had compelled him to state his views—historical, planetary, and universal. The order probably should be reversed: first there were the views, planetary or universal, and then there were hidden dollars, water pipes, firemen. Sammler went out and walked in the garden, behind the house, up and down the drive. He was dissatisfied. He had explained, he had taken positions, he had said things he hadn't meant, meant things he hadn't said. Indoors, there were activities, discussions, explanations , arrangements, rearrangements. In the house of a dying man. It was the turn again of certain minor260 things which people insisted on enlarging, magnifying, moving into the center: relationships, interior decorations, family wrangles498, Minox photographs of thieves on buses, arms of Puerto Rican ladies on the Bronx Express, odi-et-amo need-and-rejection, emotional self-examinations, erotic businesses in Acapulco, fellatio with friendly strangers. Civilian499 matters. Civilian one and all! The high-minded, like Plato (now he was not only lecturing, but even lecturing himself), wished to get rid of such stuff—wrangles, lawsuits500, hysterias, all such hole-and-corner pettiness. Other powerful minds denied that this could be done. They held (like Freud) that the mightiest501 instincts were bound up in just such stuff, each trifle the symptom of a deep disease in a creature whose whole fate was disease. What to do about such things? Absurd in form, but possibly real? But possibly not real? Relief from this had become imperative502. And that was why, during the Aqaba crisis, Mr. Sammler had had to go to the Middle East.
At this moment, walking in white moonlight on Elya Gruner's washed gravel, which had been cut with black tracks by the fire engines, he recognized and again identified his motives503. He had gone back to 1939. He wanted to refer again to Zamosht Forest, to more basic human characteristics. When had things seemed real, true? In Poland when blinded, in Zamosht when freezing, in the tomb when hungry. So he had persuaded Elya to let him go, to send him, and he had renewed his familiarity with a certain sort of fact. Which, as he was older and more fragile, had made his legs tremble more; the more he tried to stiffen504 himself up the more he faltered505. Few outer signs of this were given. But wasn't he too old? Did he have any business to fly to a war?
It was announced in Athens, on the plane, that this flight would not continue because the fighting had already begun in Israel. Grounded! He must get out. The Greek heat was dizzy, in the airport. The public music circled through Mr. Sammler's unwilling506 head. The sugary coffee, the sticky drinks, also were a trial to him. The suspense507, the delay, gnawed508 him intolerably. He went into the city and visited airline offices, he asked a business friend of Elya's, in oil or gasoline, to help, he visited the Israeli consulate509 and obtained a seat on the first El Al flight. He waited again at the airport until four a.m. among journalists and hippies. These young people—Dutch, German, Scandinavian, Canadian, American—had been encamped at Eilath on the Red Sea. The Bedouins on the ancient route from Arabia into Egypt had sold them hashish. It was a jolly place. Now with their guitars they wanted to go back. Responding to a primary event. Though recognizing no governments.
The jet was packed. One could not move. For lean old men, breathing was difficult. A television man beside Sammler offered him a pull from his whisky bottle. "Thank you," said Sammler, and accepted. He swallowed down Bell's scotch510. Just then the sun ran up from the sea like a red fox. It was not round but long, not far but near. The metal of the engines, those shapely vats511 in which the freezing air was screaming—light into blackness, blackness into light-hung under the wings beside Sammler's window. Whisky from a bottle—he smiled at himself—made him a real war correspondent. An odd person to be rushing to this war, although no more odd than these Stone Age bohemians with their solemn beards. There were others besides who did not seem very useful in a crisis. Sammler would be filing his old-fashioned dispatches to Mr. Jerzy Zhelonski in London to be read by a very mixed Polish public.
Mr. Sammler had had no business, at his age, in a white cap and striped seersucker jacket, to be riding in a press bus behind those tanks to Gaza, to Al Arish and beyond. But he had managed it all himself. There was nothing accidental about it. In these American articles of dress he had perhaps passed for a younger man. Americans and Englishmen always looked a little younger. Anyway, there he was. He was one of the journalists. He walked about in conquered Gaza. They were sweeping512 broken glass. In the square, armor and guns. Just beyond, the cemetery513 walls, the domes514 of white tombs. In the dust, scraps515 of food baking, sour; odors of heating garbage and of urine. Broadcast Oriental jazz winding516 like dysentery through the bowels517. Such deadly comical music. Women, oldish women only, went marketing518; or set out to market; there couldn't have been much to buy. The black veils were transparent519. You saw the heavy-boned mannish faces underneath—large noses, the stem mouths projecting over stonelike teeth. There was nothing to keep you in Gaza for long. The bus stopped for Sammler, and young Father Newell in his Vietnam battle dress greeted him.
Knowing modern warfare, the Father was able to point things out which Sammler might have missed when they passed the last of the irrigated520 fields and entered the Sinai Desert. Then they began to see the dead, the unburied Arab bodies. Father Newell showed him the first. Sammler might never have noticed, might have taken the corpse for nothing but a greenish gunnysack, stuffed tight, dropped from a truck on the white sand.
Driven off the road, sunk in the sand, wrecked521 on the dunes522, many burnt—all these vehicles, the personnel carriers, tanks, trucks, the light cars smashed flat, wheels freed, escaped; and very thick about these machines, the dead. There were dug positions, emplacements, trenches, and in them, too, there were hundreds of corpses. The odor was like damp cardboard. The clothes of the dead, greenish-brown sweaters, tunics523, shirts were strained by the swelling, the gases, the fluids. Swollen524 gigantic arms, legs, roasted in the sun. The dogs ate human roast. In the trenches the bodies leaned on the parapets. The dogs came cringing525, flattening526 up. The inhabitants had run away from the encampments you saw here and there—the low tents, Bedouin-style, but made of plastic crate222 wrappings dumped from ships, pieces of styrofoam, dirty sheets of cellulose like insect moltings, large cockroach527 cases. Poor folk! Ah, poor creatures!
"Well, they did a job, didn't they," said Father Newell. "How many casualties, would you say?"
"I have no idea."
"This was a small Russian experiment, I believe," Father Newell said. "Now they know."
In the sun the faces softened528, blackened, melted, and flowed away. The flesh sank to the skull, the cartilage of the nose warping529, the lips shrinking, eyes dissolving, fluids filling the hollows and shining on the skin. A strange flavor of human grease. Of wet paper pulp530. Mr. Sammler fought his nausea531. As he and Father Newell walked together, they were warned not to step off the road because of mines. Sammler read out for the priest the Russian letters stenciled532 white on the green tanks and trucks GORKISKII AUTOZAVOD, most of them said. Father Newell seemed to know a lot about gun calibers, armor thickness, ranges. In a lowered voice, out of respect for the Israelis who denied its use, he identified the napalm. See all that reddish, all that mauve out there? Salmon-pink with a green tinge533 in the clinkers was the sure sign. Positively napalm. It was a real war. These Jews were tough. He spoke to Sammler as one American to another. The long blue seersucker stripes', the soiled white cap from Kresge's, the little spiral book in which Sammler made his notes for Polish articles, also from Kresge's, accounted for this. It was a real war. Everyone respected killing. Why not the priest? He walked in the big American battle boots as if he were not altogether a priest. He was not a chaplain. He was a newspaperman. He was not what he was assumed to be. Nor was Sammler. What Sammler was he could not clearly formulate534. Human, in some altered way. The human being at the point where he attempted to obtain his release from being human. Wasn't this what Sammler had been getting at in the kitchen, talking to Lal and the ladies of divorce from every human state? Petitioning for a release from God's attention? My days are vanity. I would not live always. Let me alone. To be visited every morning, to be called upon, to be magnified. Let me alone.
Walking the narrow road with Father Newell, picking up curious objects, shells, bandages, Arab comic books and letters, stepping aside for trucks stacked high with bread, weighing down the springs, projecting at the rear. But really the main subject could not be changed, the subject of the dead. Bristling535 in the green-brown and gravy-colored woolens536. The suffocating537 wet cardboard fumes they gave off. In the superhot, the crack light, the glassy persistency and distortion of the desert light, these swollen shapes were the main thing to be seen. They were the one subject the soul was sure to take seriously. And this perhaps was what Sammler's instinct had directed him to do. To go to Kennedy, to get on a jet, to land in Tel Aviv, to have snapshots taken, to obtain a press card, to find a bus to Gaza, to visit the great sun wheel of white desert in which these Egyptian corpses and machines were embedded538, to make his primary contact. Certain desires thus were met, for which he could not account. And this war was, as human affairs went, a most minor affair. In modern experience, so very little. Nothing at all. And the people involved in it, the boys, after fighting, played soccer at Al Arish. They cleared a space, and they kicked and butted539, they leaped up, they trotted540 on the sand. Or in the shade of the hangars they took out their books and read biology or chemistry, philosophy, preparing for exams perhaps. Then he and Father Newell were called over to look at captured snipers on the bed of a truck, trussed up and blindfolded541. Below these eye rags, the desperate faces, as if it were not a most minor affair. One saw those, and then the next things, and then other things. And evidently Mr. Sammler had his own need for these sights, for which he mastered the trembling of his legs or the wish to cry which flashed through him when he saw the snipers' bandaged faces. He was taken down to the sea by some men. They entered the water to refresh themselves. He too went in and stood. In a broad band along the beaches the foam101 mixed with heat-shimmer for many miles, in varying deep curves of seething542 white between the sand and the great blue. For a little while, in the water, he did not smell rotting flesh, but soon had to tie a handkerchief over his face. The handkerchief quickly absorbed the smell. It tainted543 his clothing. His spittle tasted of it.
Via London, ten days later, he flew home. As if he had been on some sort of mission: self-assigned: fact-finding. He observed that modem London was very playful. He visited his old flat in Woburn Square. He noted that the traffic was very thick. He saw that there were more drunkards in the streets, that the British advertising industry had discovered the female nude544, and that most posters along the escalators of the Underground were of women in undergarments. He found his acquaintances as old as himself. Then BOAC brought him back to Kennedy Airport, and soon afterward he was in the Forty-second Street Library reading, as always, Meister Eckhardt.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit. Poor is he who has nothing. He who is poor in spirit is receptive of all spirit. Now God is the Spirit of spirits. The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, and peace. See to it that you are stripped of all creatures, of all consolation545 from creatures. For certainly as long as creatures comfort and are able to comfort you, you will never find true comfort. But if nothing can comfort you save God, truly God will console you."
Mr. Sammler could not say that he literally believed what he was reading. He could, however, say that he cared to read nothing but this.
On the lawn before the half-timbered house the ground was damp, the grass was fragrant546. Or was it the soil itself that smelled so fresh? In the clarified, moon-purged air, he saw Shula coming, looking for him.
"Why aren't you in bed?"
"I'm going."
She gave him Elya's own afghan to cover himself with, and he lay down.
Feeling what a strange species he belonged to, which had organized its planet to such an extent. Of this mass of ingenious creatures, about half had gone into the state of sleep, in pillows, sheeted, wrapped, quilted, muffled547. The waking, like a crew, worked the world's machines, and all went up and down and round about with calculations accurate to the billionth of a degree, the skins of engines removed, replaced, million-mile trajectories548 laid out. By these geniuses, the waking. The sleeping, brutes549, fantasists, dreaming. Then they woke, and the other half went to bed.
And that is how this brilliant human race runs this wheeling globe.
He joined the other sleepers550 for a while.
点击收听单词发音
1 limousine | |
n.豪华轿车 | |
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2 faucet | |
n.水龙头 | |
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3 rivalry | |
n.竞争,竞赛,对抗 | |
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4 rancor | |
n.深仇,积怨 | |
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5 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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6 warfare | |
n.战争(状态);斗争;冲突 | |
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7 mole | |
n.胎块;痣;克分子 | |
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8 molested | |
v.骚扰( molest的过去式和过去分词 );干扰;调戏;猥亵 | |
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9 projection | |
n.发射,计划,突出部分 | |
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10 pro | |
n.赞成,赞成的意见,赞成者 | |
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11 creases | |
(使…)起折痕,弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 ); (皮肤)皱起,使起皱纹 | |
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12 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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13 descend | |
vt./vi.传下来,下来,下降 | |
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14 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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15 license | |
n.执照,许可证,特许;v.许可,特许 | |
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16 courteous | |
adj.彬彬有礼的,客气的 | |
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17 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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18 cult | |
n.异教,邪教;时尚,狂热的崇拜 | |
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19 kin | |
n.家族,亲属,血缘关系;adj.亲属关系的,同类的 | |
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20 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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21 eminent | |
adj.显赫的,杰出的,有名的,优良的 | |
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22 insidious | |
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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23 subside | |
vi.平静,平息;下沉,塌陷,沉降 | |
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24 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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25 emancipated | |
adj.被解放的,不受约束的v.解放某人(尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚)( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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27 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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28 archaic | |
adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的,已不通用的 | |
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29 elite | |
n.精英阶层;实力集团;adj.杰出的,卓越的 | |
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30 symbolic | |
adj.象征性的,符号的,象征主义的 | |
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31 oligarchy | |
n.寡头政治 | |
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32 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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33 automobile | |
n.汽车,机动车 | |
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34 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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35 boundless | |
adj.无限的;无边无际的;巨大的 | |
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36 boundlessness | |
海阔天空 | |
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37 appease | |
v.安抚,缓和,平息,满足 | |
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38 appeasement | |
n.平息,满足 | |
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39 prolific | |
adj.丰富的,大量的;多产的,富有创造力的 | |
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40 belly | |
n.肚子,腹部;(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分,膛 | |
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41 miser | |
n.守财奴,吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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42 unlimited | |
adj.无限的,不受控制的,无条件的 | |
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43 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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44 modules | |
n.模块( module的名词复数 );单元;(宇宙飞船上各个独立的)舱;组件 | |
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45 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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46 confinement | |
n.幽禁,拘留,监禁;分娩;限制,局限 | |
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47 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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48 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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49 zoologist | |
n.动物学家 | |
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50 lustful | |
a.贪婪的;渴望的 | |
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51 interferes | |
vi. 妨碍,冲突,干涉 | |
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52 narcissistic | |
adj.自我陶醉的,自恋的,自我崇拜的 | |
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53 slaughter | |
n.屠杀,屠宰;vt.屠杀,宰杀 | |
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54 trenches | |
深沟,地沟( trench的名词复数 ); 战壕 | |
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55 necromancer | |
n. 巫师 | |
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56 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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57 pegs | |
n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 );挂钉;系帐篷的桩;弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 );使固定在某水平 | |
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58 bust | |
vt.打破;vi.爆裂;n.半身像;胸部 | |
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59 interfering | |
adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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60 fore | |
adv.在前面;adj.先前的;在前部的;n.前部 | |
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61 thighs | |
n.股,大腿( thigh的名词复数 );食用的鸡(等的)腿 | |
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62 assassinated | |
v.暗杀( assassinate的过去式和过去分词 );中伤;诋毁;破坏 | |
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63 participation | |
n.参与,参加,分享 | |
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64 presumptuous | |
adj.胆大妄为的,放肆的,冒昧的,冒失的 | |
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65 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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66 sipped | |
v.小口喝,呷,抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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67 sip | |
v.小口地喝,抿,呷;n.一小口的量 | |
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68 squad | |
n.班,小队,小团体;vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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69 psychic | |
n.对超自然力敏感的人;adj.有超自然力的 | |
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70 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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71 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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72 lagoon | |
n.泻湖,咸水湖 | |
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73 pane | |
n.窗格玻璃,长方块 | |
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74 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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75 truant | |
n.懒惰鬼,旷课者;adj.偷懒的,旷课的,游荡的;v.偷懒,旷课 | |
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76 toil | |
vi.辛劳工作,艰难地行动;n.苦工,难事 | |
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77 radiator | |
n.暖气片,散热器 | |
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78 dime | |
n.(指美国、加拿大的钱币)一角 | |
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79 pals | |
n.朋友( pal的名词复数 );老兄;小子;(对男子的不友好的称呼)家伙 | |
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80 insignificance | |
n.不重要;无价值;无意义 | |
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81 lames | |
瘸的( lame的第三人称单数 ); 站不住脚的; 差劲的; 蹩脚的 | |
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82 contemplate | |
vt.盘算,计议;周密考虑;注视,凝视 | |
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83 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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84 kit | |
n.用具包,成套工具;随身携带物 | |
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85 forefinger | |
n.食指 | |
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86 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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87 analytical | |
adj.分析的;用分析法的 | |
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88 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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89 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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90 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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91 peculiarities | |
n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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92 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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93 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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94 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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95 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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96 chauffeur | |
n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机;v.为…开车 | |
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97 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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98 conscientiously | |
adv.凭良心地;认真地,负责尽职地;老老实实 | |
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99 rinsed | |
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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100 foamed | |
泡沫的 | |
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101 foam | |
v./n.泡沫,起泡沫 | |
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102 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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103 abortion | |
n.流产,堕胎 | |
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104 dressing | |
n.(食物)调料;包扎伤口的用品,敷料 | |
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105 crumbs | |
int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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106 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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107 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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108 crouched | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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110 scuttle | |
v.急赶,疾走,逃避;n.天窗;舷窗 | |
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111 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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112 toiling | |
长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 ); 艰难缓慢地移动,跋涉 | |
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113 fatiguing | |
a.使人劳累的 | |
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114 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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115 veins | |
n.纹理;矿脉( vein的名词复数 );静脉;叶脉;纹理 | |
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116 gender | |
n.(生理上的)性,(名词、代词等的)性 | |
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117 apprentice | |
n.学徒,徒弟 | |
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118 woolen | |
adj.羊毛(制)的;毛纺的 | |
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119 gasping | |
adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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120 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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121 invoke | |
v.求助于(神、法律);恳求,乞求 | |
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122 contagious | |
adj.传染性的,有感染力的 | |
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123 lapsing | |
v.退步( lapse的现在分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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124 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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125 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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126 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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127 xerox | |
n./v.施乐复印机,静电复印 | |
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128 lockers | |
n.寄物柜( locker的名词复数 ) | |
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129 locker | |
n.更衣箱,储物柜,冷藏室,上锁的人 | |
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130 memoir | |
n.[pl.]回忆录,自传;记事录 | |
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131 rental | |
n.租赁,出租,出租业 | |
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132 exasperating | |
adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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133 portfolios | |
n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 );(保险)业务量;(公司或机构提供的)系列产品;纸夹 | |
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134 assuage | |
v.缓和,减轻,镇定 | |
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135 abide | |
vi.遵守;坚持;vt.忍受 | |
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136 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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137 glazed | |
adj.光滑的,像玻璃的;上过釉的;呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式);上釉于,上光;(目光)变得呆滞无神 | |
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138 tedium | |
n.单调;烦闷 | |
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139 afflict | |
vt.使身体或精神受痛苦,折磨 | |
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140 primordial | |
adj.原始的;最初的 | |
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141 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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142 hacked | |
生气 | |
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143 killing | |
n.巨额利润;突然赚大钱,发大财 | |
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144 transformation | |
n.变化;改造;转变 | |
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145 machinery | |
n.(总称)机械,机器;机构 | |
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146 exhuming | |
v.挖出,发掘出( exhume的现在分词 ) | |
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147 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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148 corpses | |
n.死尸,尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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149 killer | |
n.杀人者,杀人犯,杀手,屠杀者 | |
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150 insanity | |
n.疯狂,精神错乱;极端的愚蠢,荒唐 | |
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151 sanity | |
n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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152 delusions | |
n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 );谬见;错觉;妄想 | |
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153 implicate | |
vt.使牵连其中,涉嫌 | |
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154 bind | |
vt.捆,包扎;装订;约束;使凝固;vi.变硬 | |
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155 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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156 joint | |
adj.联合的,共同的;n.关节,接合处;v.连接,贴合 | |
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157 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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158 philistine | |
n.庸俗的人;adj.市侩的,庸俗的 | |
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159 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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160 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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161 accurately | |
adv.准确地,精确地 | |
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162 apparition | |
n.幽灵,神奇的现象 | |
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163 truthful | |
adj.真实的,说实话的,诚实的 | |
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164 garrulous | |
adj.唠叨的,多话的 | |
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165 crumpled | |
adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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166 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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167 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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168 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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169 chaste | |
adj.贞洁的;有道德的;善良的;简朴的 | |
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170 dorsal | |
adj.背部的,背脊的 | |
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171 begotten | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 );产生,引起 | |
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172 ego | |
n.自我,自己,自尊 | |
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173 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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174 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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175 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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176 gracefully | |
ad.大大方方地;优美地 | |
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177 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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178 inadequacy | |
n.无法胜任,信心不足 | |
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179 meager | |
adj.缺乏的,不足的,瘦的 | |
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180 simultaneously | |
adv.同时发生地,同时进行地 | |
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181 modem | |
n.调制解调器 | |
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182 clenched | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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183 solicitous | |
adj.热切的,挂念的 | |
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184 densely | |
ad.密集地;浓厚地 | |
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185 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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186 stultifies | |
v.使成为徒劳,使变得无用( stultify的第三人称单数 ) | |
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187 rosebud | |
n.蔷薇花蕾,妙龄少女 | |
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188 incongruity | |
n.不协调,不一致 | |
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189 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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190 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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191 clattering | |
发出咔哒声(clatter的现在分词形式) | |
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192 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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193 snobbery | |
n. 充绅士气派, 俗不可耐的性格 | |
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194 presentiments | |
n.(对不祥事物的)预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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195 distressed | |
痛苦的 | |
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196 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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197 fumes | |
n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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198 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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199 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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200 droplet | |
n.小滴,飞沫 | |
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201 enactments | |
n.演出( enactment的名词复数 );展现;规定;通过 | |
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202 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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203 lipstick | |
n.口红,唇膏 | |
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204 dilated | |
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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205 obsolete | |
adj.已废弃的,过时的 | |
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206 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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207 amorously | |
adv.好色地,妖艳地;脉;脉脉;眽眽 | |
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208 stratagem | |
n.诡计,计谋 | |
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209 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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210 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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211 kindled | |
(使某物)燃烧,着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 ); 激起(感情等); 发亮,放光 | |
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212 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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213 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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214 binder | |
n.包扎物,包扎工具;[法]临时契约;粘合剂;装订工 | |
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215 ransom | |
n.赎金,赎身;v.赎回,解救 | |
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216 tilting | |
倾斜,倾卸 | |
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217 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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218 wig | |
n.假发 | |
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219 optimist | |
n.乐观的人,乐观主义者 | |
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220 optimists | |
n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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221 crater | |
n.火山口,弹坑 | |
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222 crate | |
vt.(up)把…装入箱中;n.板条箱,装货箱 | |
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223 manifestations | |
n.表示,显示(manifestation的复数形式) | |
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224 benevolence | |
n.慈悲,捐助 | |
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225 extermination | |
n.消灭,根绝 | |
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226 maniacs | |
n.疯子(maniac的复数形式) | |
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227 slaying | |
杀戮。 | |
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228 rape | |
n.抢夺,掠夺,强奸;vt.掠夺,抢夺,强奸 | |
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229 arson | |
n.纵火,放火 | |
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230 expressiveness | |
n.富有表现力 | |
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231 subjectivity | |
n.主观性(主观主义) | |
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232 monologues | |
n.(戏剧)长篇独白( monologue的名词复数 );滔滔不绝的讲话;独角戏 | |
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233 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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234 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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235 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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236 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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237 tellers | |
n.(银行)出纳员( teller的名词复数 );(投票时的)计票员;讲故事等的人;讲述者 | |
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238 charlatan | |
n.骗子;江湖医生;假内行 | |
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239 charlatans | |
n.冒充内行者,骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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240 buffoons | |
n.愚蠢的人( buffoon的名词复数 );傻瓜;逗乐小丑;滑稽的人 | |
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241 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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242 polemicist | |
n.善辩论者 | |
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243 rhetoric | |
n.修辞学,浮夸之言语 | |
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244 ideological | |
a.意识形态的 | |
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245 potent | |
adj.强有力的,有权势的;有效力的 | |
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246 authoritative | |
adj.有权威的,可相信的;命令式的;官方的 | |
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247 plebeians | |
n.平民( plebeian的名词复数 );庶民;平民百姓;平庸粗俗的人 | |
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248 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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249 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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250 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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251 scribbled | |
v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 );乱画;草草地写;匆匆记下 | |
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252 activist | |
n.活动分子,积极分子 | |
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253 aristocrats | |
n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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254 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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255 unpack | |
vt.打开包裹(或行李),卸货 | |
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256 quota | |
n.(生产、进出口等的)配额,(移民的)限额 | |
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257 quotation | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
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258 rebuke | |
v.指责,非难,斥责 [反]praise | |
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259 complexity | |
n.复杂(性),复杂的事物 | |
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260 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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261 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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262 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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263 condenser | |
n.冷凝器;电容器 | |
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264 denser | |
adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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265 journalism | |
n.新闻工作,报业 | |
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266 shrugged | |
vt.耸肩(shrug的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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267 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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268 mechanisms | |
n.机械( mechanism的名词复数 );机械装置;[生物学] 机制;机械作用 | |
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269 cellular | |
adj.移动的;细胞的,由细胞组成的 | |
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270 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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271 blueprint | |
n.蓝图,设计图,计划;vt.制成蓝图,计划 | |
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272 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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273 grasshopper | |
n.蚱蜢,蝗虫,蚂蚱 | |
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274 encyclopedia | |
n.百科全书 | |
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275 perusal | |
n.细读,熟读;目测 | |
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276 accusation | |
n.控告,指责,谴责 | |
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277 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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278 hog | |
n.猪;馋嘴贪吃的人;vt.把…占为己有,独占 | |
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279 wastefulness | |
浪费,挥霍,耗费 | |
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280 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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281 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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282 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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283 reactionary | |
n.反动者,反动主义者;adj.反动的,反动主义的,反对改革的 | |
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284 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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285 stunting | |
v.阻碍…发育[生长],抑制,妨碍( stunt的现在分词 ) | |
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286 personalities | |
n. 诽谤,(对某人容貌、性格等所进行的)人身攻击; 人身攻击;人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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287 justifications | |
正当的理由,辩解的理由( justification的名词复数 ) | |
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288 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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289 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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290 knuckles | |
n.(指人)指关节( knuckle的名词复数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝v.(指人)指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 );(指动物)膝关节,踝 | |
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291 corrupts | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的第三人称单数 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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292 irrational | |
adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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293 teeming | |
adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 );到处都是;(指水、雨等)暴降;倾注 | |
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294 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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295 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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296 tiresome | |
adj.令人疲劳的,令人厌倦的 | |
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297 tiresomeness | |
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298 embarrassments | |
n.尴尬( embarrassment的名词复数 );难堪;局促不安;令人难堪或耻辱的事 | |
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299 overflow | |
v.(使)外溢,(使)溢出;溢出,流出,漫出 | |
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300 nag | |
v.(对…)不停地唠叨;n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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301 fanaticism | |
n.狂热,盲信 | |
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302 condemn | |
vt.谴责,指责;宣判(罪犯),判刑 | |
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303 demolish | |
v.拆毁(建筑物等),推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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304 mediocre | |
adj.平常的,普通的 | |
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305 jargon | |
n.术语,行话 | |
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306 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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307 implicit | |
a.暗示的,含蓄的,不明晰的,绝对的 | |
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308 fulfill | |
vt.履行,实现,完成;满足,使满意 | |
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309 acting | |
n.演戏,行为,假装;adj.代理的,临时的,演出用的 | |
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310 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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311 hunched | |
(常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦)耸肩弓身的,伏首前倾的 | |
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312 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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313 ornament | |
v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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314 hurl | |
vt.猛投,力掷,声叫骂 | |
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315 inertia | |
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
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316 phantom | |
n.幻影,虚位,幽灵;adj.错觉的,幻影的,幽灵的 | |
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317 paralysis | |
n.麻痹(症);瘫痪(症) | |
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318 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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319 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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320 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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321 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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322 constituent | |
n.选民;成分,组分;adj.组成的,构成的 | |
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323 molecules | |
分子( molecule的名词复数 ) | |
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324 nuclei | |
n.核 | |
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325 vascular | |
adj.血管的,脉管的 | |
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326 metaphorical | |
a.隐喻的,比喻的 | |
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327 metaphor | |
n.隐喻,暗喻 | |
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328 ecological | |
adj.生态的,生态学的 | |
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329 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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330 attachment | |
n.附属物,附件;依恋;依附 | |
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331 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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332 sidereal | |
adj.恒星的 | |
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333 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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334 ineptly | |
adv. 不适当地,无能地 | |
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335 lobster | |
n.龙虾,龙虾肉 | |
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336 attic | |
n.顶楼,屋顶室 | |
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337 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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338 lessened | |
减少的,减弱的 | |
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339 smitten | |
猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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340 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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341 rebounding | |
蹦跳运动 | |
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342 paltry | |
adj.无价值的,微不足道的 | |
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343 credentials | |
n.证明,资格,证明书,证件 | |
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344 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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345 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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346 attachments | |
n.(用电子邮件发送的)附件( attachment的名词复数 );附着;连接;附属物 | |
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347 persistency | |
n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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348 maladroit | |
adj.笨拙的 | |
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349 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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350 lizard | |
n.蜥蜴,壁虎 | |
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351 cerebral | |
adj.脑的,大脑的;有智力的,理智型的 | |
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352 awareness | |
n.意识,觉悟,懂事,明智 | |
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353 finesse | |
n.精密技巧,灵巧,手腕 | |
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354 skeptical | |
adj.怀疑的,多疑的 | |
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355 recital | |
n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
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356 recitals | |
n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 );独奏会;小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等;一系列事件等的详述 | |
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357 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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358 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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359 paranoiac | |
n.偏执狂患者 | |
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360 subtlety | |
n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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361 chaotic | |
adj.混沌的,一片混乱的,一团糟的 | |
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362 Mediterranean | |
adj.地中海的;地中海沿岸的 | |
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363 cumulative | |
adj.累积的,渐增的 | |
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364 savagery | |
n.野性 | |
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365 primal | |
adj.原始的;最重要的 | |
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366 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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367 neolithic | |
adj.新石器时代的 | |
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368 automated | |
a.自动化的 | |
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369 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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370 superfluous | |
adj.过多的,过剩的,多余的 | |
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371 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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372 civilized | |
a.有教养的,文雅的 | |
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373 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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374 laborer | |
n.劳动者,劳工 | |
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375 thwarted | |
阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 ); 使受挫折; 挫败; 横过 | |
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376 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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377 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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378 nourishment | |
n.食物,营养品;营养情况 | |
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379 revival | |
n.复兴,复苏,(精力、活力等的)重振 | |
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380 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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381 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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382 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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383 repudiation | |
n.拒绝;否认;断绝关系;抛弃 | |
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384 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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385 cosmetics | |
n.化妆品 | |
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386 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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387 blasphemy | |
n.亵渎,渎神 | |
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388 hygiene | |
n.健康法,卫生学 (a.hygienic) | |
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389 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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390 brutally | |
adv.残忍地,野蛮地,冷酷无情地 | |
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391 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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392 deforming | |
使变形,使残废,丑化( deform的现在分词 ) | |
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393 deformed | |
adj.畸形的;变形的;丑的,破相了的 | |
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394 obsessed | |
adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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395 theatricality | |
n.戏剧风格,不自然 | |
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396 prominence | |
n.突出;显著;杰出;重要 | |
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397 orphanage | |
n.孤儿院 | |
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398 Nazis | |
n.(德国的)纳粹党员( Nazi的名词复数 );纳粹主义 | |
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399 ghetto | |
n.少数民族聚居区,贫民区 | |
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400 deported | |
v.将…驱逐出境( deport的过去式和过去分词 );举止 | |
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401 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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402 pageants | |
n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 );穿古代服装的游行;再现历史场景的娱乐活动;盛会 | |
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403 deportation | |
n.驱逐,放逐 | |
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404 parody | |
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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405 dictatorial | |
adj. 独裁的,专断的 | |
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406 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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407 pretensions | |
自称( pretension的名词复数 ); 自命不凡; 要求; 权力 | |
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408 predilection | |
n.偏好 | |
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409 farces | |
n.笑剧( farce的名词复数 );闹剧;笑剧剧目;作假的可笑场面 | |
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410 liberated | |
a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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411 killers | |
凶手( killer的名词复数 ); 消灭…者; 致命物; 极难的事 | |
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412 abasement | |
n.滥用 | |
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413 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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414 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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415 wilt | |
v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎;(指人)疲倦,衰弱 | |
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416 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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417 preoccupies | |
v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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418 doomed | |
命定的 | |
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419 condemned | |
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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420 saner | |
adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 );神志正常的;明智的;稳健的 | |
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421 disintegration | |
n.分散,解体 | |
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422 advertising | |
n.广告业;广告活动 a.广告的;广告业务的 | |
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423 orphans | |
孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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424 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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425 wringing | |
淋湿的,湿透的 | |
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426 glands | |
n.腺( gland的名词复数 ) | |
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427 debris | |
n.瓦砾堆,废墟,碎片 | |
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428 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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429 delightfully | |
大喜,欣然 | |
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430 disinterestedness | |
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431 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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432 pastiche | |
n.模仿 ; 混成 | |
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433 banality | |
n.陈腐;平庸;陈词滥调 | |
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434 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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435 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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436 gentry | |
n.绅士阶级,上层阶级 | |
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437 royalty | |
n.皇家,皇族 | |
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438 discredited | |
不足信的,不名誉的 | |
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439 ethical | |
adj.伦理的,道德的,合乎道德的 | |
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440 diffused | |
散布的,普及的,扩散的 | |
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441 transcend | |
vt.超出,超越(理性等)的范围 | |
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442 outraged | |
a.震惊的,义愤填膺的 | |
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443 defiled | |
v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 );污染;弄脏;纵列行进 | |
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444 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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445 misanthropes | |
n.厌恶人类者( misanthrope的名词复数 ) | |
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446 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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447 adumbration | |
n.预示,预兆 | |
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448 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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449 connoisseur | |
n.鉴赏家,行家,内行 | |
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450 eternity | |
n.不朽,来世;永恒,无穷 | |
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451 restiveness | |
n.倔强,难以驾御 | |
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452 advantageous | |
adj.有利的;有帮助的 | |
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453 colonizing | |
v.开拓殖民地,移民于殖民地( colonize的现在分词 ) | |
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454 ingenuity | |
n.别出心裁;善于发明创造 | |
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455 mosaic | |
n./adj.镶嵌细工的,镶嵌工艺品的,嵌花式的 | |
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456 overflowing | |
n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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457 trickling | |
n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 );淌;使)慢慢走;缓慢移动 | |
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458 cascading | |
流注( cascade的现在分词 ); 大量落下; 大量垂悬; 梯流 | |
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459 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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460 dummy | |
n.假的东西;(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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461 gambling | |
n.赌博;投机 | |
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462 odds | |
n.让步,机率,可能性,比率;胜败优劣之别 | |
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463 plumbing | |
n.水管装置;水暖工的工作;管道工程v.用铅锤测量(plumb的现在分词);探究 | |
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464 wrench | |
v.猛拧;挣脱;使扭伤;n.扳手;痛苦,难受 | |
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465 plumber | |
n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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466 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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467 drenched | |
adj.湿透的;充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 );在某人(某物)上大量使用(某液体) | |
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468 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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469 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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470 suave | |
adj.温和的;柔和的;文雅的 | |
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471 cynical | |
adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
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472 Soviet | |
adj.苏联的,苏维埃的;n.苏维埃 | |
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473 crossword | |
n.纵横字谜,纵横填字游戏 | |
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474 anarchistic | |
无政府主义的 | |
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475 arsonists | |
n.纵火犯( arsonist的名词复数 ) | |
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476 gutters | |
(路边)排水沟( gutter的名词复数 ); 阴沟; (屋顶的)天沟; 贫贱的境地 | |
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477 spout | |
v.喷出,涌出;滔滔不绝地讲;n.喷管;水柱 | |
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478 bailing | |
(凿井时用吊桶)排水 | |
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479 waft | |
v.飘浮,飘荡;n.一股;一阵微风;飘荡 | |
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480 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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481 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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482 turbulence | |
n.喧嚣,狂暴,骚乱,湍流 | |
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483 dough | |
n.生面团;钱,现款 | |
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484 blessing | |
n.祈神赐福;祷告;祝福,祝愿 | |
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485 censor | |
n./vt.审查,审查员;删改 | |
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486 dribble | |
v.点滴留下,流口水;n.口水 | |
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487 puddles | |
n.水坑, (尤指道路上的)雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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488 exorbitant | |
adj.过分的;过度的 | |
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489 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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490 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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491 halfway | |
adj.中途的,不彻底的,部分的;adv.半路地,在中途,在半途 | |
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492 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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493 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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494 alibi | |
n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明;借口 | |
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495 gulping | |
v.狼吞虎咽地吃,吞咽( gulp的现在分词 );大口地吸(气);哽住 | |
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496 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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497 shrieks | |
n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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498 wrangles | |
n.(尤指长时间的)激烈争吵,口角,吵嘴( wrangle的名词复数 )v.争吵,争论,口角( wrangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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499 civilian | |
adj.平民的,民用的,民众的 | |
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500 lawsuits | |
n.诉讼( lawsuit的名词复数 ) | |
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501 mightiest | |
adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 );巨大的;强有力的;浩瀚的 | |
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502 imperative | |
n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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503 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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504 stiffen | |
v.(使)硬,(使)变挺,(使)变僵硬 | |
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505 faltered | |
(嗓音)颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 ); 支吾其词; 蹒跚; 摇晃 | |
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506 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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507 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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508 gnawed | |
咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 ); (长时间) 折磨某人; (使)苦恼; (长时间)危害某事物 | |
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509 consulate | |
n.领事馆 | |
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510 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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511 vats | |
varieties 变化,多样性,种类 | |
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512 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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513 cemetery | |
n.坟墓,墓地,坟场 | |
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514 domes | |
n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 );像圆屋顶一样的东西;圆顶体育场 | |
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515 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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516 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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517 bowels | |
n.肠,内脏,内部;肠( bowel的名词复数 );内部,最深处 | |
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518 marketing | |
n.行销,在市场的买卖,买东西 | |
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519 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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520 irrigated | |
[医]冲洗的 | |
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521 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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522 dunes | |
沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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523 tunics | |
n.(动植物的)膜皮( tunic的名词复数 );束腰宽松外衣;一套制服的短上衣;(天主教主教等穿的)短祭袍 | |
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524 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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525 cringing | |
adj.谄媚,奉承 | |
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526 flattening | |
n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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527 cockroach | |
n.蟑螂 | |
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528 softened | |
(使)变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 ); 缓解打击; 缓和; 安慰 | |
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529 warping | |
n.翘面,扭曲,变形v.弄弯,变歪( warp的现在分词 );使(行为等)不合情理,使乖戾, | |
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530 pulp | |
n.果肉,纸浆;v.化成纸浆,除去...果肉,制成纸浆 | |
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531 nausea | |
n.作呕,恶心;极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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532 stenciled | |
v.用模板印(文字或图案)( stencil的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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533 tinge | |
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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534 formulate | |
v.用公式表示;规划;设计;系统地阐述 | |
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535 bristling | |
a.竖立的 | |
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536 woolens | |
毛织品,毛料织物; 毛织品,羊毛织物,毛料衣服( woolen的名词复数 ) | |
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537 suffocating | |
a.使人窒息的 | |
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538 embedded | |
a.扎牢的 | |
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539 butted | |
对接的 | |
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540 trotted | |
小跑,急走( trot的过去分词 ); 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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541 blindfolded | |
v.(尤指用布)挡住(某人)的视线( blindfold的过去式 );蒙住(某人)的眼睛;使不理解;蒙骗 | |
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542 seething | |
沸腾的,火热的 | |
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543 tainted | |
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
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544 nude | |
adj.裸体的;n.裸体者,裸体艺术品 | |
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545 consolation | |
n.安慰,慰问 | |
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546 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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547 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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548 trajectories | |
n.弹道( trajectory的名词复数 );轨道;轨线;常角轨道 | |
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549 brutes | |
兽( brute的名词复数 ); 畜生; 残酷无情的人; 兽性 | |
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550 sleepers | |
n.卧铺(通常以复数形式出现);卧车( sleeper的名词复数 );轨枕;睡觉(呈某种状态)的人;小耳环 | |
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