For two reasons I have called this concluding series of plays not again by the name of “The Dramatist,” but by the general name of “The Philosopher.” The first reason is that given above, that we have come to the time of his triumph and may therefore treat him as having gained complete possession of a pulpit of his own. But there is a second reason: that it was just about this time that he began to create not only a pulpit of his own, but a church and creed5 of his own. It is a very vast and universal religion; and it is not his fault that he is the only member of it. The plainer way of putting it is this: that here, in the hour of his earthly victory, there dies in him the old mere denier, the mere dynamiter6 of criticism. In the warmth of popularity he begins to wish to put his faith positively8; to offer some solid key to all creation. Perhaps the irony9 in the situation is this: that all the crowds are acclaiming10 him as the blasting and hypercritical buffoon11, while he himself is seriously rallying his synthetic12 power, and with a grave face telling himself that it is time he had a faith to preach. His final success as a sort of charlatan13 coincides with his first grand failures as a theologian.
For this reason I have deliberately14 called a halt in his dramatic career, in order to consider these two essential points: What did the mass of Englishmen, who had now learnt to admire him, imagine his point of view to be? and second, What did he imagine it to be? or, if the phrase be premature16, What did he imagine it was going to be? In his latest work, especially in Man and Superman, Shaw has become a complete and colossal17 mystic. That mysticism does grow quite rationally out of his older arguments; but very few people ever troubled to trace the connection. In order to do so it is necessary to say what was, at the time of his first success, the public impression of Shaw’s philosophy.
Now it is an irritating and pathetic thing that the three most popular phrases about Shaw are false. Modern criticism, like all weak things, is overloaded18 with words. In a healthy condition of language a man finds it very difficult to say the right thing, but at last says it. In this empire of journalese a man finds it so very easy to say the wrong thing that he never thinks of saying anything else. False or meaningless phrases lie so ready to his hand that it is easier to use them than not to use them. These wrong terms picked up through idleness are retained through habit, and so the man has begun to think wrong almost before he has begun to think at all. Such lumbering19 logomachy is always injurious and oppressive to men of spirit, imagination or intellectual honour, and it has dealt very recklessly and wrongly with Bernard Shaw. He has contrived20 to get about three newspaper phrases tied to his tail; and those newspaper phrases are all and separately wrong. The three superstitions21 about him, it will be conceded, are generally these: first that he desires “problem plays,” second that he is “paradoxical,” and third that in his dramas as elsewhere he is specially4 “a Socialist24.” And the interesting thing is that when we come to his philosophy, all these three phrases are quite peculiarly inapplicable.
To take the plays first, there is a general disposition26 to describe that type of intimate or defiant27 drama which he approves as “the problem play.” Now the serious modern play is, as a rule, the very reverse of a problem play; for there can be no problem unless both points of view are equally and urgently presented. Hamlet really is a problem play because at the end of it one is really in doubt as to whether upon the author’s showing Hamlet is something more than a man or something less. Henry IV and Henry V are really problem plays; in this sense, that the reader or spectator is really doubtful whether the high but harsh efficiency, valour, and ambition of Henry V are an improvement on his old blackguard camaraderie28; and whether he was not a better man when he was a thief. This hearty29 and healthy doubt is very common in Shakespeare; I mean a doubt that exists in the writer as well as in the reader. But Bernard Shaw is far too much of a Puritan to tolerate such doubts about points which he counts essential. There is no sort of doubt that the young lady in Arms and the Man is improved by losing her ideals. There is no sort of doubt that Captain Brassbound is improved by giving up the object of his life. But a better case can be found in something that both dramatists have been concerned with; Shaw wrote C?sar and Cleopatra; Shakespeare wrote Antony and Cleopatra and also Julius C?sar. And exactly what annoys Bernard Shaw about Shakespeare’s version is this: that Shakespeare has an open mind or, in other words, that Shakespeare has really written a problem play. Shakespeare sees quite as clearly as Shaw that Brutus is unpractical and ineffectual; but he also sees, what is quite as plain and practical a fact, that these ineffectual men do capture the hearts and influence the policies of mankind. Shaw would have nothing said in favour of Brutus; because Brutus is on the wrong side in politics. Of the actual problem of public and private morality, as it was presented to Brutus, he takes actually no notice at all. He can write the most energetic and outspoken30 of propaganda plays; but he cannot rise to a problem play. He cannot really divide his mind and let the two parts speak independently to each other. He has never, so to speak, actually split his head in two; though I daresay there are many other people who are willing to do it for him.
Sometimes, especially in his later plays, he allows his clear conviction to spoil even his admirable dialogue, making one side entirely31 weak, as in an Evangelical tract32. I do not know whether in Major Barbara the young Greek professor was supposed to be a fool. As popular tradition (which I trust more than anything else) declared that he is drawn34 from a real Professor of my acquaintance, who is anything but a fool, I should imagine not. But in that case I am all the more mystified by the incredibly weak fight which he makes in the play in answer to the elephantine sophistries35 of Undershaft. It is really a disgraceful case, and almost the only case in Shaw of there being no fair fight between the two sides. For instance, the Professor mentions pity. Mr. Undershaft says with melodramatic scorn, “Pity! the scavenger37 of the Universe!” Now if any gentleman had said this to me, I should have replied, “If I permit you to escape from the point by means of metaphors39, will you tell me whether you disapprove40 of scavengers?” Instead of this obvious retort, the miserable41 Greek professor only says, “Well then, love,” to which Undershaft replies with unnecessary violence that he won’t have the Greek professor’s love, to which the obvious answer of course would be, “How the deuce can you prevent my loving you if I choose to do so?” Instead of this, as far as I remember, that abject42 Hellenist says nothing at all. I only mention this unfair dialogue, because it marks, I think, the recent hardening, for good or evil, of Shaw out of a dramatist into a mere philosopher, and whoever hardens into a philosopher may be hardening into a fanatic43.
And just as there is nothing really problematic in Shaw’s mind, so there is nothing really paradoxical. The meaning of the word paradoxical may indeed be made the subject of argument. In Greek, of course, it simply means something which is against the received opinion; in that sense a missionary44 remonstrating45 with South Sea cannibals is paradoxical. But in the much more important world, where words are used and altered in the using, paradox23 does not mean merely this: it means at least something of which the antinomy or apparent inconsistency is sufficiently47 plain in the words used, and most commonly of all it means an idea expressed in a form which is verbally contradictory48. Thus, for instance, the great saying, “He that shall lose his life, the same shall save it,” is an example of what modern people mean by a paradox. If any learned person should read this book (which seems immeasurably improbable) he can content himself with putting it this way, that the moderns mistakenly say paradox when they should say oxymoron. Ultimately, in any case, it may be agreed that we commonly mean by a paradox some kind of collision between what is seemingly and what is really true.
Now if by paradox we mean truth inherent in a contradiction, as in the saying of Christ that I have quoted, it is a very curious fact that Bernard Shaw is almost entirely without paradox. Moreover, he cannot even understand a paradox. And more than this, paradox is about the only thing in the world that he does not understand. All his splendid vistas49 and startling suggestions arise from carrying some one clear principle further than it has yet been carried. His madness is all consistency46, not inconsistency. As the point can hardly be made clear without examples, let us take one example, the subject of education. Shaw has been all his life preaching to grown-up people the profound truth that liberty and responsibility go together; that the reason why freedom is so often easily withheld50, is simply that it is a terrible nuisance. This is true, though not the whole truth, of citizens; and so when Shaw comes to children he can only apply to them the same principle that he has already applied51 to citizens. He begins to play with the Herbert Spencer idea of teaching children by experience; perhaps the most fatuously52 silly idea that was ever gravely put down in print. On that there is no need to dwell; one has only to ask how the experimental method is to be applied to a precipice53; and the theory no longer exists. But Shaw effected a further development, if possible more fantastic. He said that one should never tell a child anything without letting him hear the opposite opinion. That is to say, when you tell Tommy not to hit his sick sister on the temple, you must make sure of the presence of some Nietzscheite professor, who will explain to him that such a course might possibly serve to eliminate the unfit. When you are in the act of telling Susan not to drink out of the bottle labelled “poison,” you must telegraph for a Christian54 Scientist, who will be ready to maintain that without her own consent it cannot do her any harm. What would happen to a child brought up on Shaw’s principle I cannot conceive; I should think he would commit suicide in his bath. But that is not here the question. The point is that this proposition seems quite sufficiently wild and startling to ensure that its author, if he escapes Hanwell, would reach the front rank of journalists, demagogues, or public entertainers. It is a perfect paradox, if a paradox only means something that makes one jump. But it is not a paradox at all in the sense of a contradiction. It is not a contradiction, but an enormous and outrageous55 consistency, the one principle of free thought carried to a point to which no other sane56 man would consent to carry it. Exactly what Shaw does not understand is the paradox; the unavoidable paradox of childhood. Although this child is much better than I, yet I must teach it. Although this being has much purer passions than I, yet I must control it. Although Tommy is quite right to rush towards a precipice, yet he must be stood in the corner for doing it. This contradiction is the only possible condition of having to do with children at all; anyone who talks about a child without feeling this paradox might just as well be talking about a merman. He has never even seen the animal. But this paradox Shaw in his intellectual simplicity57 cannot see; he cannot see it because it is a paradox. His only intellectual excitement is to carry one idea further and further across the world. It never occurs to him that it might meet another idea, and like the three winds in Martin Chuzzlewit, they might make a night of it. His only paradox is to pull out one thread or cord of truth longer and longer into waste and fantastic places. He does not allow for that deeper sort of paradox by which two opposite cords of truth become entangled58 in an inextricable knot. Still less can he be made to realise that it is often this knot which ties safely together the whole bundle of human life.
This blindness to paradox everywhere perplexes his outlook. He cannot understand marriage because he will not understand the paradox of marriage; that the woman is all the more the house for not being the head of it. He cannot understand patriotism59, because he will not understand the paradox of patriotism; that one is all the more human for not merely loving humanity. He does not understand Christianity because he will not understand the paradox of Christianity; that we can only really understand all myths when we know that one of them is true. I do not under-rate him for this anti-paradoxical temper; I concede that much of his finest and keenest work in the way of intellectual purification would have been difficult or impossible without it. But I say that here lies the limitation of that lucid60 and compelling mind; he cannot quite understand life, because he will not accept its contradictions.
Nor is it by any means descriptive of Shaw to call him a Socialist; in so far as that word can be extended to cover an ethical62 attitude. He is the least social of all Socialists63; and I pity the Socialist state that tries to manage him. This anarchism of his is not a question of thinking for himself; every decent man thinks for himself; it would be highly immodest to think for anybody else. Nor is it any instinctive64 licence or egoism; as I have said before, he is a man of peculiarly acute public conscience. The unmanageable part of him, the fact that he cannot be conceived as part of a crowd or as really and invisibly helping65 a movement, has reference to another thing in him, or rather to another thing not in him.
The great defect of that fine intelligence is a failure to grasp and enjoy the things commonly called convention and tradition; which are foods upon which all human creatures must feed frequently if they are to live. Very few modern people of course have any idea of what they are. “Convention” is very nearly the same word as “democracy.” It has again and again in history been used as an alternative word to Parliament. So far from suggesting anything stale or sober, the word convention rather conveys a hubbub66; it is the coming together of men; every mob is a convention. In its secondary sense it means the common soul of such a crowd, its instinctive anger at the traitor67 or its instinctive salutation of the flag. Conventions may be cruel, they may be unsuitable, they may even be grossly superstitious68 or obscene; but there is one thing that they never are. Conventions are never dead. They are always full of accumulated emotions, the piled-up and passionate69 experiences of many generations asserting what they could not explain. To be inside any true convention, as the Chinese respect for parents or the European respect for children, is to be surrounded by something which whatever else it is is not leaden, lifeless or automatic, something which is taut70 and tingling71 with vitality72 at a hundred points, which is sensitive almost to madness and which is so much alive that it can kill. Now Bernard Shaw has always made this one immense mistake (arising out of that bad progressive education of his), the mistake of treating convention as a dead thing; treating it as if it were a mere physical environment like the pavement or the rain. Whereas it is a result of will; a rain of blessings73 and a pavement of good intentions. Let it be remembered that I am not discussing in what degree one should allow for tradition; I am saying that men like Shaw do not allow for it at all. If Shaw had found in early life that he was contradicted by Bradshaw’s Railway Guide or even by the Encyclop?dia Britannica, he would have felt at least that he might be wrong. But if he had found himself contradicted by his father and mother, he would have thought it all the more probable that he was right. If the issue of the last evening paper contradicted him he might be troubled to investigate or explain. That the human tradition of two thousand years contradicted him did not trouble him for an instant. That Marx was not with him was important. That Man was not with him was an irrelevant74 prehistoric75 joke. People have talked far too much about the paradoxes76 of Bernard Shaw. Perhaps his only pure paradox is this almost unconscious one; that he has tended to think that because something has satisfied generations of men it must be untrue.
Shaw is wrong about nearly all the things one learns early in life and while one is still simple. Most human beings start with certain facts of psychology77 to which the rest of life must be somewhat related. For instance, every man falls in love; and no man falls into free love. When he falls into that he calls it lust78, and is always ashamed of it even when he boasts of it. That there is some connection between a love and a vow79 nearly every human being knows before he is eighteen. That there is a solid and instinctive connection between the idea of sexual ecstasy80 and the idea of some sort of almost suicidal constancy, this I say is simply the first fact in one’s own psychology; boys and girls know it almost before they know their own language. How far it can be trusted, how it can best be dealt with, all that is another matter. But lovers lust after constancy more than after happiness; if you are in any sense prepared to give them what they ask, then what they ask, beyond all question, is an oath of final fidelity81. Lovers may be lunatics; lovers may be children; lovers may be unfit for citizenship82 and outside human argument; you can take up that position if you will. But lovers do not only desire love; they desire marriage. The root of legal monogamy does not lie (as Shaw and his friends are for ever drearily83 asserting) in the fact that the man is a mere tyrant84 and the woman a mere slave. It lies in the fact that if their love for each other is the noblest and freest love conceivable, it can only find its heroic expression in both becoming slaves. I only mention this matter here as a matter which most of us do not need to be taught; for it was the first lesson of life. In after years we may make up what code or compromise about sex we like; but we all know that constancy, jealousy85, and the personal pledge are natural and inevitable86 in sex; we do not feel any surprise when we see them either in a murder or in a valentine. We may or may not see wisdom in early marriages; but we know quite well that wherever the thing is genuine at all, early loves will mean early marriages. But Shaw had not learnt about this tragedy of the sexes, what the rustic87 ballads88 of any country on earth would have taught him. He had not learnt, what universal common sense has put into all the folk-lore of the earth, that love cannot be thought of clearly for an instant except as monogamous. The old English ballads never sing the praises of “lovers.” They always sing the praises of “true lovers,” and that is the final philosophy of the question.
The same is true of Mr. Shaw’s refusal to understand the love of the land either in the form of patriotism or of private ownership. It is the attitude of an Irishman cut off from the soil of Ireland, retaining the audacity89 and even cynicism of the national type, but no longer fed from the roots with its pathos90 or its experience.
This broader and more brotherly rendering91 of convention must be applied particularly to the conventions of the drama; since that is necessarily the most democratic of all the arts. And it will be found generally that most of the theatrical93 conventions rest on a real artistic94 basis. The Greek Unities95, for instance, were not proper objects of the meticulous96 and trivial imitation of Seneca or Gabriel Harvey. But still less were they the right objects for the equally trivial and far more vulgar impatience97 of men like Macaulay. That a tale should, if possible, be told of one place or one day or a manageable number of characters is an ideal plainly rooted in an ?sthetic instinct. But if this be so with the classical drama, it is yet more certainly so with romantic drama, against the somewhat decayed dignity of which Bernard Shaw was largely in rebellion. There was one point in particular upon which the Ibsenites claimed to have reformed the romantic convention which is worthy98 of special allusion99.
Shaw and all the other Ibsenites were fond of insisting that a defect in the romantic drama was its tendency to end with wedding-bells. Against this they set the modern drama of middle-age, the drama which described marriage itself instead of its poetic100 preliminaries. Now if Bernard Shaw had been more patient with popular tradition, more prone101 to think that there might be some sense in its survival, he might have seen this particular problem much more clearly. The old playwrights102 have left us plenty of plays of marriage and middle-age. Othello is as much about what follows the wedding-bells as The Doll’s House. Macbeth is about a middle-aged103 couple as much as Little Eyolf. But if we ask ourselves what is the real difference, we shall, I think, find that it can fairly be stated thus. The old tragedies of marriage, though not love stories, are like love stories in this, that they work up to some act or stroke which is irrevocable as marriage is irrevocable; to the fact of death or of adultery.
Now the reason why our fathers did not make marriage, in the middle-aged and static sense, the subject of their plays was a very simple one; it was that a play is a very bad place for discussing that topic. You cannot easily make a good drama out of the success or failure of a marriage, just as you could not make a good drama out of the growth of an oak tree or the decay of an empire. As Polonius very reasonably observed, it is too long. A happy love-affair will make a drama simply because it is dramatic; it depends on an ultimate yes or no. But a happy marriage is not dramatic; perhaps it would be less happy if it were. The essence of a romantic heroine is that she asks herself an intense question; but the essence of a sensible wife is that she is much too sensible to ask herself any questions at all. All the things that make monogamy a success are in their nature undramatic things, the silent growth of an instinctive confidence, the common wounds and victories, the accumulation of customs, the rich maturing of old jokes. Sane marriage is an untheatrical thing; it is therefore not surprising that most modern dramatists have devoted104 themselves to insane marriage.
To summarise105; before touching106 the philosophy which Shaw has ultimately adopted, we must quit the notion that we know it already and that it is hit off in such journalistic terms as these three. Shaw does not wish to multiply problem plays or even problems. He has such scepticism as is the misfortune of his age; but he has this dignified107 and courageous108 quality, that he does not come to ask questions but to answer them. He is not a paradox-monger; he is a wild logician109, far too simple even to be called a sophist. He understands everything in life except its paradoxes, especially that ultimate paradox that the very things that we cannot comprehend are the things that we have to take for granted. Lastly, he is not especially social or collectivist. On the contrary, he rather dislikes men in the mass, though he can appreciate them individually. He has no respect for collective humanity in its two great forms; either in that momentary110 form which we call a mob, or in that enduring form which we call a convention.
The general cosmic theory which can so far be traced through the earlier essays and plays of Bernard Shaw may be expressed in the image of Schopenhauer standing111 on his head. I cheerfully concede that Schopenhauer looks much nicer in that posture112 than in his original one, but I can hardly suppose that he feels more comfortable. The substance of the change is this. Roughly speaking, Schopenhauer maintained that life is unreasonable113. The intellect, if it could be impartial114, would tell us to cease; but a blind partiality, an instinct quite distinct from thought, drives us on to take desperate chances in an essentially115 bankrupt lottery116. Shaw seems to accept this dingy117 estimate of the rational outlook, but adds a somewhat arresting comment. Schopenhauer had said, “Life is unreasonable; so much the worse for all living things.” Shaw said, “Life is unreasonable; so much the worse for reason.” Life is the higher call, life we must follow. It may be that there is some undetected fallacy in reason itself. Perhaps the whole man cannot get inside his own head any more than he can jump down his own throat. But there is about the need to live, to suffer, and to create that imperative118 quality which can truly be called supernatural, of whose voice it can indeed be said that it speaks with authority, and not as the scribes.
This is the first and finest item of the original Bernard Shaw creed: that if reason says that life is irrational119, life must be content to reply that reason is lifeless; life is the primary thing, and if reason impedes120 it, then reason must be trodden down into the mire15 amid the most abject superstitions. In the ordinary sense it would be specially absurd to suggest that Shaw desires man to be a mere animal. For that is always associated with lust or incontinence; and Shaw’s ideals are strict, hygienic, and even, one might say, old-maidish. But there is a mystical sense in which one may say literally121 that Shaw desires man to be an animal. That is, he desires him to cling first and last to life, to the spirit of animation122, to the thing which is common to him and the birds and plants. Man should have the blind faith of a beast: he should be as mystically immutable123 as a cow, and as deaf to sophistries as a fish. Shaw does not wish him to be a philosopher or an artist; he does not even wish him to be a man, so much as he wishes him to be, in this holy sense, an animal. He must follow the flag of life as fiercely from conviction as all other creatures follow it from instinct.
But this Shavian worship of life is by no means lively. It has nothing in common either with the braver or the baser forms of what we commonly call optimism. It has none of the omnivorous124 exultation126 of Walt Whitman or the fiery127 pantheism of Shelley. Bernard Shaw wishes to show himself not so much as an optimist128, but rather as a sort of faithful and contented129 pessimist130. This contradiction is the key to nearly all his early and more obvious contradictions and to many which remain to the end. Whitman and many modern idealists have talked of taking even duty as a pleasure; it seems to me that Shaw takes even pleasure as a duty. In a queer way he seems to see existence as an illusion and yet as an obligation. To every man and woman, bird, beast, and flower, life is a love-call to be eagerly followed. To Bernard Shaw it is merely a military bugle131 to be obeyed. In short, he fails to feel that the command of Nature (if one must use the anthropomorphic fable132 of Nature instead of the philosophic133 term God) can be enjoyed as well as obeyed. He paints life at its darkest and then tells the babe unborn to take the leap in the dark. That is heroic; and to my instinct at least Schopenhauer looks like a pigmy beside his pupil. But it is the heroism134 of a morbid135 and almost asphyxiated136 age. It is awful to think that this world which so many poets have praised has even for a time been depicted137 as a man-trap into which we may just have the manhood to jump. Think of all those ages through which men have talked of having the courage to die. And then remember that we have actually fallen to talking about having the courage to live.
It is exactly this oddity or dilemma139 which may be said to culminate140 in the crowning work of his later and more constructive141 period, the work in which he certainly attempted, whether with success or not, to state his ultimate and cosmic vision; I mean the play called Man and Superman. In approaching this play we must keep well in mind the distinction recently drawn: that Shaw follows the banner of life, but austerely142, not joyously144. For him nature has authority, but hardly charm. But before we approach it it is necessary to deal with three things that lead up to it. First it is necessary to speak of what remained of his old critical and realistic method; and then it is necessary to speak of the two important influences which led up to his last and most important change of outlook.
First, since all our spiritual epochs overlap146, and a man is often doing the old work while he is thinking of the new, we may deal first with what may be fairly called his last two plays of pure worldly criticism. These are Major Barbara and John Bull’s Other Island. Major Barbara indeed contains a strong religious element; but, when all is said, the whole point of the play is that the religious element is defeated. Moreover, the actual expressions of religion in the play are somewhat unsatisfactory as expressions of religion—or even of reason. I must frankly147 say that Bernard Shaw always seems to me to use the word God not only without any idea of what it means, but without one moment’s thought about what it could possibly mean. He said to some atheist148, “Never believe in a God that you cannot improve on.” The atheist (being a sound theologian) naturally replied that one should not believe in a God whom one could improve on; as that would show that he was not God. In the same style in Major Barbara the heroine ends by suggesting that she will serve God without personal hope, so that she may owe nothing to God and He owe everything to her. It does not seem to strike her that if God owes everything to her He is not God. These things affect me merely as tedious perversions149 of a phrase. It is as if you said, “I will never have a father unless I have begotten150 him.”
But the real sting and substance of Major Barbara is much more practical and to the point. It expresses not the new spirituality but the old materialism151 of Bernard Shaw. Almost every one of Shaw’s plays is an expanded epigram. But the epigram is not expanded (as with most people) into a hundred commonplaces. Rather the epigram is expanded into a hundred other epigrams; the work is at least as brilliant in detail as it is in design. But it is generally possible to discover the original and pivotal epigram which is the centre and purpose of the play. It is generally possible, even amid that blinding jewellery of a million jokes, to discover the grave, solemn and sacred joke for which the play itself was written.
The ultimate epigram of Major Barbara can be put thus. People say that poverty is no crime; Shaw says that poverty is a crime; that it is a crime to endure it, a crime to be content with it, that it is the mother of all crimes of brutality152, corruption153, and fear. If a man says to Shaw that he is born of poor but honest parents, Shaw tells him that the very word “but” shows that his parents were probably dishonest. In short, he maintains here what he had maintained elsewhere: that what the people at this moment require is not more patriotism or more art or more religion or more morality or more sociology, but simply more money. The evil is not ignorance or decadence155 or sin or pessimism156; the evil is poverty. The point of this particular drama is that even the noblest enthusiasm of the girl who becomes a Salvation157 Army officer fails under the brute158 money power of her father who is a modern capitalist. When I have said this it will be clear why this play, fine and full of bitter sincerity159 as it is, must in a manner be cleared out of the way before we come to talk of Shaw’s final and serious faith. For his serious faith is in the sanctity of human will, in the divine capacity for creation and choice rising higher than environment and doom160; and so far as that goes, Major Barbara is not only apart from his faith but against his faith. Major Barbara is an account of environment victorious161 over heroic will. There are a thousand answers to the ethic61 in Major Barbara which I should be inclined to offer. I might point out that the rich do not so much buy honesty as curtains to cover dishonesty: that they do not so much buy health as cushions to comfort disease. And I might suggest that the doctrine162 that poverty degrades the poor is much more likely to be used as an argument for keeping them powerless than as an argument for making them rich. But there is no need to find such answers to the materialistic163 pessimism of Major Barbara. The best answer to it is in Shaw’s own best and crowning philosophy, with which we shall shortly be concerned.
John Bull’s Other Island represents a realism somewhat more tinged164 with the later transcendentalism of its author. In one sense, of course, it is a satire165 on the conventional Englishman, who is never so silly or sentimental166 as when he sees silliness and sentiment in the Irishman. Broadbent, whose mind is all fog and his morals all gush167, is firmly persuaded that he is bringing reason and order among the Irish, whereas in truth they are all smiling at his illusions with the critical detachment of so many devils. There have been many plays depicting168 the absurd Paddy in a ring of Anglo–Saxons; the first purpose of this play is to depict138 the absurd Anglo–Saxon in a ring of ironical169 Paddies. But it has a second and more subtle purpose, which is very finely contrived. It is suggested that when all is said and done there is in this preposterous170 Englishman a certain creative power which comes from his simplicity and optimism, from his profound resolution rather to live life than to criticise171 it. I know no finer dialogue of philosophical172 cross-purposes than that in which Broadbent boasts of his commonsense173, and his subtler Irish friend mystifies him by telling him that he, Broadbent, has no common-sense, but only inspiration. The Irishman admits in Broadbent a certain unconscious spiritual force even in his very stupidity. Lord Rosebery coined the very clever phrase “a practical mystic.” Shaw is here maintaining that all practical men are practical mystics. And he is really maintaining also that the most practical of all the practical mystics is the one who is a fool.
There is something unexpected and fascinating about this reversal of the usual argument touching enterprise and the business man; this theory that success is created not by intelligence, but by a certain half-witted and yet magical instinct. For Bernard Shaw, apparently174, the forests of factories and the mountains of money are not the creations of human wisdom or even of human cunning; they are rather manifestations175 of the sacred maxim176 which declares that God has chosen the foolish things of the earth to confound the wise. It is simplicity and even innocence177 that has made Manchester. As a philosophical fancy this is interesting or even suggestive; but it must be confessed that as a criticism of the relations of England to Ireland it is open to a strong historical objection. The one weak point in John Bull’s Other Island is that it turns on the fact that Broadbent succeeds in Ireland. But as a matter of fact Broadbent has not succeeded in Ireland. If getting what one wants is the test and fruit of this mysterious strength, then the Irish peasants are certainly much stronger than the English merchants; for in spite of all the efforts of the merchants, the land has remained a land of peasants. No glorification178 of the English practicality as if it were a universal thing can ever get over the fact that we have failed in dealing179 with the one white people in our power who were markedly unlike ourselves. And the kindness of Broadbent has failed just as much as his common-sense; because he was dealing with a people whose desire and ideal were different from his own. He did not share the Irish passion for small possession in land or for the more pathetic virtues181 of Christianity. In fact the kindness of Broadbent has failed for the same reason that the gigantic kindness of Shaw has failed. The roots are different; it is like tying the tops of two trees together. Briefly182, the philosophy of John Bull’s Other Island is quite effective and satisfactory except for this incurable183 fault: the fact that John Bull’s other island is not John Bull’s.
This clearing off of his last critical plays we may classify as the first of the three facts which lead up to Man and Superman. The second of the three facts may be found, I think, in Shaw’s discovery of Nietzsche. This eloquent184 sophist has an influence upon Shaw and his school which it would require a separate book adequately to study. By descent Nietzsche was a Pole, and probably a Polish noble; and to say that he was a Polish noble is to say that he was a frail185, fastidious, and entirely useless anarchist186. He had a wonderful poetic wit; and is one of the best rhetoricians of the modern world. He had a remarkable187 power of saying things that master the reason for a moment by their gigantic unreasonableness188; as, for instance, “Your life is intolerable without immortality189; but why should not your life be intolerable?” His whole work is shot through with the pangs190 and fevers of his physical life, which was one of extreme bad health; and in early middle age his brilliant brain broke down into impotence and darkness. All that was true in his teaching was this: that if a man looks fine on a horse it is so far irrelevant to tell him that he would be more economical on a donkey or more humane191 on a tricycle. In other words, the mere achievement of dignity, beauty, or triumph is strictly192 to be called a good thing. I do not know if Nietzsche ever used the illustration; but it seems to me that all that is creditable or sound in Nietzsche could be stated in the derivation of one word, the word “valour.” Valour means valeur; it means a value; courage is itself a solid good; it is an ultimate virtue180; valour is in itself valid193. In so far as he maintained this Nietzsche was only taking part in that great Protestant game of see-saw which has been the amusement of northern Europe since the sixteenth century. Nietzsche imagined he was rebelling against ancient morality; as a matter of fact he was only rebelling against recent morality, against the half-baked impudence194 of the utilitarians195 and the materialists. He thought he was rebelling against Christianity; curiously197 enough he was rebelling solely198 against the special enemies of Christianity, against Herbert Spencer and Mr. Edward Clodd. Historic Christianity has always believed in the valour of St. Michael riding in front of the Church Militant199; and in an ultimate and absolute pleasure, not indirect or utilitarian196, the intoxication200 of the spirit, the wine of the blood of God.
There are indeed doctrines201 of Nietzsche that are not Christian, but then, by an entertaining coincidence, they are also not true. His hatred202 of pity is not Christian, but that was not his doctrine but his disease. Invalids203 are often hard on invalids. And there is another doctrine of his that is not Christianity, and also (by the same laughable accident) not common-sense; and it is a most pathetic circumstance that this was the one doctrine which caught the eye of Shaw and captured him. He was not influenced at all by the morbid attack on mercy. It would require more than ten thousand mad Polish professors to make Bernard Shaw anything but a generous and compassionate204 man. But it is certainly a nuisance that the one Nietzsche doctrine which attracted him was not the one Nietzsche doctrine that is human and rectifying205. Nietzsche might really have done some good if he had taught Bernard Shaw to draw the sword, to drink wine, or even to dance. But he only succeeded in putting into his head a new superstition22, which bids fair to be the chief superstition of the dark ages which are possibly in front of us—I mean the superstition of what is called the Superman.
In one of his least convincing phrases, Nietzsche had said that just as the ape ultimately produced the man, so should we ultimately produce something higher than the man. The immediate206 answer, of course, is sufficiently obvious: the ape did not worry about the man, so why should we worry about the Superman? If the Superman will come by natural selection, may we leave it to natural selection? If the Superman will come by human selection, what sort of Superman are we to select? If he is simply to be more just, more brave, or more merciful, then Zarathustra sinks into a Sunday-school teacher; the only way we can work for it is to be more just, more brave, and more merciful; sensible advice, but hardly startling. If he is to be anything else than this, why should we desire him, or what else are we to desire? These questions have been many times asked of the Nietzscheites, and none of the Nietzscheites have even attempted to answer them.
The keen intellect of Bernard Shaw would, I think, certainly have seen through this fallacy and verbiage207 had it not been that another important event about this time came to the help of Nietzsche and established the Superman on his pedestal. It is the third of the things which I have called stepping-stones to Man and Superman, and it is very important. It is nothing less than the breakdown208 of one of the three intellectual supports upon which Bernard Shaw had reposed210 through all his confident career. At the beginning of this book I have described the three ultimate supports of Shaw as the Irishman, the Puritan, and the Progressive. They are the three legs of the tripod upon which the prophet sat to give the oracle211; and one of them broke. Just about this time suddenly, by a mere shaft36 of illumination, Bernard Shaw ceased to believe in progress altogether.
It is generally implied that it was reading Plato that did it. That philosopher was very well qualified212 to convey the first shock of the ancient civilisation213 to Shaw, who had always thought instinctively214 of civilisation as modern. This is not due merely to the daring splendour of the speculations215 and the vivid picture of Athenian life, it is due also to something analogous216 in the personalities217 of that particular ancient Greek and this particular modern Irishman. Bernard Shaw has much affinity218 to Plato—in his instinctive elevation219 of temper, his courageous pursuit of ideas as far as they will go, his civic220 idealism; and also, it must be confessed, in his dislike of poets and a touch of delicate inhumanity. But whatever influence produced the change, the change had all the dramatic suddenness and completeness which belongs to the conversions221 of great men. It had been perpetually implied through all the earlier works not only that mankind is constantly improving, but that almost everything must be considered in the light of this fact. More than once he seemed to argue, in comparing the dramatists of the sixteenth with those of the nineteenth century, that the latter had a definite advantage merely because they were of the nineteenth century and not of the sixteenth. When accused of impertinence towards the greatest of the Elizabethans, Bernard Shaw had said, “Shakespeare is a much taller man than I, but I stand on his shoulders”—an epigram which sums up this doctrine with characteristic neatness. But Shaw fell off Shakespeare’s shoulders with a crash. This chronological223 theory that Shaw stood on Shakespeare’s shoulders logically involved the supposition that Shakespeare stood on Plato’s shoulders. And Bernard Shaw found Plato from his point of view so much more advanced than Shakespeare that he decided224 in desperation that all three were equal.
Such failure as has partially225 attended the idea of human equality is very largely due to the fact that no party in the modern state has heartily226 believed in it. Tories and Radicals228 have both assumed that one set of men were in essentials superior to mankind. The only difference was that the Tory superiority was a superiority of place; while the Radical227 superiority is a superiority of time. The great objection to Shaw being on Shakespeare’s shoulders is a consideration for the sensations and personal dignity of Shakespeare. It is a democratic objection to anyone being on anyone else’s shoulders. Eternal human nature refuses to submit to a man who rules merely by right of birth. To rule by right of century is to rule by right of birth. Shaw found his nearest kinsman229 in remote Athens, his remotest enemies in the closest historical proximity230; and he began to see the enormous average and the vast level of mankind. If progress swung constantly between such extremes it could not be progress at all. The paradox was sharp but undeniable; if life had such continual ups and downs, it was upon the whole flat. With characteristic sincerity and love of sensation he had no sooner seen this than he hastened to declare it. In the teeth of all his previous pronouncements he emphasised and reemphasised in print that man had not progressed at all; that ninety-nine hundredths of a man in a cave were the same as ninety-nine hundredths of a man in a suburban231 villa232.
It is characteristic of him to say that he rushed into print with a frank confession233 of the failure of his old theory. But it is also characteristic of him that he rushed into print also with a new alternative theory, quite as definite, quite as confident, and, if one may put it so, quite as infallible as the old one. Progress had never happened hitherto, because it had been sought solely through education. Education was rubbish. “Fancy,” said he, “trying to produce a greyhound or a racehorse by education!” The man of the future must not be taught; he must be bred. This notion of producing superior human beings by the methods of the stud-farm had often been urged, though its difficulties had never been cleared up. I mean its practical difficulties; its moral difficulties, or rather impossibilities, for any animal fit to be called a man need scarcely be discussed. But even as a scheme it had never been made clear. The first and most obvious objection to it of course is this: that if you are to breed men as pigs, you require some overseer who is as much more subtle than a man as a man is more subtle than a pig. Such an individual is not easy to find.
It was, however, in the heat of these three things, the decline of his merely destructive realism, the discovery of Nietzsche, and the abandonment of the idea of a progressive education of mankind, that he attempted what is not necessarily his best, but certainly his most important work. The two things are by no means necessarily the same. The most important work of Milton is Paradise Lost; his best work is Lycidas. There are other places in which Shaw’s argument is more fascinating or his wit more startling than in Man and Superman; there are other plays that he has made more brilliant. But I am sure that there is no other play that he wished to make more brilliant. I will not say that he is in this case more serious than elsewhere; for the word serious is a double-meaning and double-dealing word, a traitor in the dictionary. It sometimes means solemn, and it sometimes means sincere. A very short experience of private and public life will be enough to prove that the most solemn people are generally the most insincere. A somewhat more delicate and detailed234 consideration will show also that the most sincere men are generally not solemn; and of these is Bernard Shaw. But if we use the word serious in the old and Latin sense of the word “grave,” which means weighty or valid, full of substance, then we may say without any hesitation235 that this is the most serious play of the most serious man alive.
The outline of the play is, I suppose, by this time sufficiently well known. It has two main philosophic motives236. The first is that what he calls the life-force (the old infidels called it Nature, which seems a neater word, and nobody knows the meaning of either of them) desires above all things to make suitable marriages, to produce a purer and prouder race, or eventually to produce a Superman. The second is that in this effecting of racial marriages the woman is a more conscious agent than the man. In short, that woman disposes a long time before man proposes. In this play, therefore, woman is made the pursuer and man the pursued. It cannot be denied, I think, that in this matter Shaw is handicapped by his habitual237 hardness of touch, by his lack of sympathy with the romance of which he writes, and to a certain extent even by his own integrity and right conscience. Whether the man hunts the woman or the woman the man, at least it should be a splendid pagan hunt; but Shaw is not a sporting man. Nor is he a pagan, but a Puritan. He cannot recover the impartiality238 of paganism which allowed Diana to propose to Endymion without thinking any the worse of her. The result is that while he makes Anne, the woman who marries his hero, a really powerful and convincing woman, he can only do it by making her a highly objectionable woman. She is a liar25 and a bully239, not from sudden fear or excruciating dilemma; she is a liar and a bully in grain; she has no truth or magnanimity in her. The more we know that she is real, the more we know that she is vile240. In short, Bernard Shaw is still haunted with his old impotence of the unromantic writer; he cannot imagine the main motives of human life from the inside. We are convinced successfully that Anne wishes to marry Tanner, but in the very process we lose all power of conceiving why Tanner should ever consent to marry Anne. A writer with a more romantic strain in him might have imagined a woman choosing her lover without shamelessness and magnetising him without fraud. Even if the first movement were feminine, it need hardly be a movement like this. In truth, of course, the two sexes have their two methods of attraction, and in some of the happiest cases they are almost simultaneous. But even on the most cynical241 showing they need not be mixed up. It is one thing to say that the mousetrap is not there by accident. It is another to say (in the face of ocular experience) that the mousetrap runs after the mouse.
But whenever Shaw shows the Puritan hardness or even the Puritan cheapness, he shows something also of the Puritan nobility, of the idea that sacrifice is really a frivolity242 in the face of a great purpose. The reasonableness of Calvin and his followers243 will by the mercy of heaven be at last washed away; but their unreasonableness will remain an eternal splendour. Long after we have let drop the fancy that Protestantism was rational it will be its glory that it was fanatical. So it is with Shaw. To make Anne a real woman, even a dangerous woman, he would need to be something stranger and softer than Bernard Shaw. But though I always argue with him whenever he argues, I confess that he always conquers me in the one or two moments when he is emotional.
There is one really noble moment when Anne offers for all her cynical husband-hunting the only defence that is really great enough to cover it. “It will not be all happiness for me. Perhaps death.” And the man rises also at that real crisis, saying, “Oh, that clutch holds and hurts. What have you grasped in me? Is there a father’s heart as well as a mother’s?” That seems to me actually great; I do not like either of the characters an atom more than formerly244; but I can see shining and shaking through them at that instant the splendour of the God that made them and of the image of God who wrote their story.
A logician is like a liar in many respects, but chiefly in the fact that he should have a good memory. That cutting and inquisitive245 style which Bernard Shaw has always adopted carries with it an inevitable criticism. And it cannot be denied that this new theory of the supreme246 importance of sound sexual union, wrought247 by any means, is hard logically to reconcile with Shaw’s old diatribes248 against sentimentalism and operatic romance. If Nature wishes primarily to entrap249 us into sexual union, then all the means of sexual attraction, even the most maudlin250 or theatrical, are justified251 at one stroke. The guitar of the troubadour is as practical as the ploughshare of the husbandman. The waltz in the ballroom252 is as serious as the debate in the parish council. The justification253 of Anne, as the potential mother of Superman, is really the justification of all the humbugs254 and sentimentalists whom Shaw had been denouncing as a dramatic critic and as a dramatist since the beginning of his career. It was to no purpose that the earlier Bernard Shaw said that romance was all moonshine. The moonshine that ripens255 love is now as practical as the sunshine that ripens corn. It was vain to say that sexual chivalry256 was all rot; it might be as rotten as manure—and also as fertile. It is vain to call first love a fiction; it may be as fictitious257 as the ink of the cuttle or the doubling of the hare; as fictitious, as efficient, and as indispensable. It is vain to call it a self-deception; Schopenhauer said that all existence was a self-deception; and Shaw’s only further comment seems to be that it is right to be deceived. To Man and Superman, as to all his plays, the author attaches a most fascinating preface at the beginning. But I really think that he ought also to attach a hearty apology at the end; an apology to all the minor258 dramatists or preposterous actors whom he had cursed for romanticism in his youth. Whenever he objected to an actress for ogling259 she might reasonably reply, “But this is how I support my friend Anne in her sublime260 evolutionary261 effort.” Whenever he laughed at an old-fashioned actor for ranting262, the actor might answer, “My exaggeration is not more absurd than the tail of a peacock or the swagger of a cock; it is the way I preach the great fruitful lie of the life-force that I am a very fine fellow.” We have remarked the end of Shaw’s campaign in favour of progress. This ought really to have been the end of his campaign against romance. All the tricks of love that he called artificial become natural; because they become Nature. All the lies of love become truths; indeed they become the Truth.
The minor things of the play contain some thunderbolts of good thinking. Throughout this brief study I have deliberately not dwelt upon mere wit, because in anything of Shaw’s that may be taken for granted. It is enough to say that this play which is full of his most serious quality is as full as any of his minor sort of success. In a more solid sense two important facts stand out: the first is the character of the young American; the other is the character of Straker, the chauffeur263. In these Shaw has realised and made vivid two most important facts. First, that America is not intellectually a go-ahead country, but both for good and evil an old-fashioned one. It is full of stale culture and ancestral simplicity, just as Shaw’s young millionaire quotes Macaulay and piously264 worships his wife. Second, he has pointed265 out in the character of Straker that there has arisen in our midst a new class that has education without breeding. Straker is the man who has ousted266 the hansom-cabman, having neither his coarseness nor his kindliness267. Great sociological credit is due to the man who has first clearly observed that Straker has appeared. How anybody can profess33 for a moment to be glad that he has appeared, I do not attempt to conjecture268.
Appended to the play is an entertaining though somewhat mysterious document called “The Revolutionist’s Handbook.” It contains many very sound remarks; this, for example, which I cannot too much applaud: “If you hit your child, be sure that you hit him in anger.” If that principle had been properly understood, we should have had less of Shaw’s sociological friends and their meddling269 with the habits and instincts of the poor. But among the fragments of advice also occurs the following suggestive and even alluring270 remark: “Every man over forty is a scoundrel.” On the first personal opportunity I asked the author of this remarkable axiom what it meant. I gathered that what it really meant was something like this: that every man over forty had been all the essential use that he was likely to be, and was therefore in a manner a parasite271. It is gratifying to reflect that Bernard Shaw has sufficiently answered his own epigram by continuing to pour out treasures both of truth and folly272 long after this allotted273 time. But if the epigram might be interpreted in a rather looser style as meaning that past a certain point a man’s work takes on its final character and does not greatly change the nature of its merits, it may certainly be said that with Man and Superman, Shaw reaches that stage. The two plays that have followed it, though of very great interest in themselves, do not require any revaluation of, or indeed any addition to, our summary of his genius and success. They are both in a sense casts back to his primary energies; the first in a controversial and the second in a technical sense. Neither need prevent our saying that the moment when John Tanner and Anne agree that it is doom for him and death for her and life only for the thing unborn, is the peak of his utterance274 as a prophet.
The two important plays that he has since given us are The Doctor’s Dilemma and Getting Married. The first is as regards its most amusing and effective elements a throw-back to his old game of guying the men of science. It was a very good game, and he was an admirable player. The actual story of the Doctor’s Dilemma itself seems to me less poignant275 and important than the things with which Shaw had lately been dealing. First of all, as has been said, Shaw has neither the kind of justice nor the kind of weakness that goes to make a true problem. We cannot feel the Doctor’s Dilemma, because we cannot really fancy Bernard Shaw being in a dilemma. His mind is both fond of abruptness276 and fond of finality; he always makes up his mind when he knows the facts and sometimes before. Moreover, this particular problem (though Shaw is certainly, as we shall see, nearer to pure doubt about it than about anything else) does not strike the critic as being such an exasperating277 problem after all. An artist of vast power and promise, who is also a scamp of vast profligacy278 and treachery, has a chance of life if specially treated for a special disease. The modern doctors (and even the modern dramatist) are in doubt whether he should be specially favoured because he is ?sthetically important or specially disregarded because he is ethically279 anti-social. They see-saw between the two despicable modern doctrines, one that geniuses should be worshipped like idols281 and the other that criminals should be merely wiped out like germs. That both clever men and bad men ought to be treated like men does not seem to occur to them. As a matter of fact, in these affairs of life and death one never does think of such distinctions. Nobody does shout out at sea, “Bad citizen overboard!” I should recommend the doctor in his dilemma to do exactly what I am sure any decent doctor would do without any dilemma at all: to treat the man simply as a man, and give him no more and no less favour than he would to anybody else. In short, I am sure a practical physician would drop all these visionary, unworkable modern dreams about type and criminology and go back to the plain business-like facts of the French Revolution and the Rights of Man.
The other play, Getting Married, is a point in Shaw’s career, but only as a play, not, as usual, as a heresy282. It is nothing but a conversation about marriage; and one cannot agree or disagree with the view of marriage, because all views are given which are held by anybody, and some (I should think) which are held by nobody. But its technical quality is of some importance in the life of its author. It is worth consideration as a play, because it is not a play at all. It marks the culmination283 and completeness of that victory of Bernard Shaw over the British public, or rather over their official representatives, of which I have spoken. Shaw had fought a long fight with business men, those incredible people, who assured him that it was useless to have wit without murders, and that a good joke, which is the most popular thing everywhere else, was quite unsalable in the theatrical world. In spite of this he had conquered by his wit and his good dialogue; and by the time of which we now speak he was victorious and secure. All his plays were being produced as a matter of course in England and as a matter of the fiercest fashion and enthusiasm in America and Germany. No one who knows the nature of the man will doubt that under such circumstances his first act would be to produce his wit naked and unashamed. He had been told that he could not support a slight play by mere dialogue. He therefore promptly284 produced mere dialogue without the slightest play for it to support. Getting Married is no more a play than Cicero’s dialogue De Amicitia, and not half so much a play as Wilson’s Noctes Ambrosian?. But though it is not a play, it was played, and played successfully. Everyone who went into the theatre felt that he was only eavesdropping285 at an accidental conversation. But the conversation was so sparkling and sensible that he went on eavesdropping. This, I think, as it is the final play of Shaw, is also, and fitly, his final triumph. He is a good dramatist and sometimes even a great dramatist. But the occasions when we get glimpses of him as really a great man are on these occasions when he is utterly286 undramatic.
From first to last Bernard Shaw has been nothing but a conversationalist. It is not a slur287 to say so; Socrates was one, and even Christ Himself. He differs from that divine and that human prototype in the fact that, like most modern people, he does to some extent talk in order to find out what he thinks; whereas they knew it beforehand. But he has the virtues that go with the talkative man; one of which is humility288. You will hardly ever find a really proud man talkative; he is afraid of talking too much. Bernard Shaw offered himself to the world with only one great qualification, that he could talk honestly and well. He did not speak; he talked to a crowd. He did not write; he talked to a typewriter. He did not really construct a play; he talked through ten mouths or masks instead of through one. His literary power and progress began in casual conversations—and it seems to me supremely289 right that it should end in one great and casual conversation. His last play is nothing but garrulous290 talking, that great thing called gossip. And I am happy to say that the play has been as efficient and successful as talk and gossip have always been among the children of men.
Of his life in these later years I have made no pretence291 of telling even the little that there is to tell. Those who regard him as a mere self-advertising egotist may be surprised to hear that there is perhaps no man of whose private life less could be positively said by an outsider. Even those who know him can make little but a conjecture of what has lain behind this splendid stretch of intellectual self-expression; I only make my conjecture like the rest. I think that the first great turning-point in Shaw’s life (after the early things of which I have spoken, the taint293 of drink in the teetotal home, or the first fight with poverty) was the deadly illness which fell upon him, at the end of his first flashing career as a Saturday Reviewer. I know it would goad294 Shaw to madness to suggest that sickness could have softened295 him. That is why I suggest it. But I say for his comfort that I think it hardened him also; if that can be called hardening which is only the strengthening of our souls to meet some dreadful reality. At least it is certain that the larger spiritual ambitions, the desire to find a faith and found a church, come after that time. I also mention it because there is hardly anything else to mention; his life is singularly free from landmarks296, while his literature is so oddly full of surprises. His marriage to Miss Payne–Townsend, which occurred not long after his illness, was one of those quite successful things which are utterly silent. The placidity297 of his married life may be sufficiently indicated by saying that (as far as I can make out) the most important events in it were rows about the Executive of the Fabian Society. If such ripples298 do not express a still and lake-like life, I do not know what would. Honestly, the only thing in his later career that can be called an event is the stand made by Shaw at the Fabians against the sudden assault of Mr. H. G. Wells, which, after scenes of splendid exasperations, ended in Wells’ resignation. There was another slight ruffling299 of the calm when Bernard Shaw said some quite sensible things about Sir Henry Irving. But on the whole we confront the composure of one who has come into his own.
The method of his life has remained mostly unchanged. And there is a great deal of method in his life; I can hear some people murmuring something about method in his madness. He is not only neat and business-like; but, unlike some literary men I know, does not conceal300 the fact. Having all the talents proper to an author, he delights to prove that he has also all the talents proper to a publisher; or even to a publisher’s clerk. Though many looking at his light brown clothes would call him a Bohemian, he really hates and despises Bohemianism; in the sense that he hates and despises disorder301 and uncleanness and irresponsibility. All that part of him is peculiarly normal and efficient. He gives good advice; he always answers letters, and answers them in a decisive and very legible hand. He has said himself that the only educational art that he thinks important is that of being able to jump off tram-cars at the proper moment. Though a rigid302 vegetarian303, he is quite regular and rational in his meals; and though he detests304 sport, he takes quite sufficient exercise. While he has always made a mock of science in theory, he is by nature prone to meddle305 with it in practice. He is fond of photographing, and even more fond of being photographed. He maintained (in one of his moments of mad modernity) that photography was a finer thing than portrait-painting, more exquisite306 and more imaginative; he urged the characteristic argument that none of his own photographs were like each other or like him. But he would certainly wash the chemicals off his hands the instant after an experiment; just as he would wash the blood off his hands the instant after a Socialist massacre307. He cannot endure stains or accretions308; he is of that temperament309 which feels tradition itself to be a coat of dust; whose temptation it is to feel nothing but a sort of foul310 accumulation or living disease even in the creeper upon the cottage or the moss311 upon the grave. So thoroughly312 are his tastes those of the civilised modern man that if it had not been for the fire in him of justice and anger he might have been the most trim and modern among the millions whom he shocks: and his bicycle and brown hat have been no menace in Brixton. But God sent among those suburbans one who was a prophet as well as a sanitary313 inspector314. He had every qualification for living in a villa—except the necessary indifference315 to his brethren living in pigstyes. But for the small fact that he hates with a sickening hatred the hypocrisy316 and class cruelty, he would really accept and admire the bathroom and the bicycle and asbestos-stove, having no memory of rivers or of roaring fires. In these things, like Mr. Straker, he is the New Man. But for his great soul he might have accepted modern civilisation; it was a wonderful escape. This man whom men so foolishly call crazy and anarchic has really a dangerous affinity to the fourth-rate perfections of our provincial317 and Protestant civilisation. He might even have been respectable if he had had less self-respect.
His fulfilled fame and this tone of repose209 and reason in his life, together with the large circle of his private kindness and the regard of his fellow-artists, should permit us to end the record in a tone of almost patriarchal quiet. If I wished to complete such a picture I could add many touches: that he has consented to wear evening dress; that he has supported the Times Book Club; and that his beard has turned grey; the last to his regret, as he wanted it to remain red till they had completed colour-photography. He can mix with the most conservative statesmen; his tone grows continuously more gentle in the matter of religion. It would be easy to end with the lion lying down with the lamb, the wild Irishman tamed or taming everybody, Shaw reconciled to the British public as the British public is certainly largely reconciled to Shaw.
But as I put these last papers together, having finished this rude study, I hear a piece of news. His latest play, The Showing Up of Blanco Posnet, has been forbidden by the Censor318. As far as I can discover, it has been forbidden because one of the characters professes319 a belief in God and states his conviction that God has got him. This is wholesome320; this is like one crack of thunder in a clear sky. Not so easily does the prince of this world forgive. Shaw’s religious training and instinct is not mine, but in all honest religion there is something that is hateful to the prosperous compromise of our time. You are free in our time to say that God does not exist; you are free to say that He exists and is evil; you are free to say (like poor old Renan) that He would like to exist if He could. You may talk of God as a metaphor38 or a mystification; you may water Him down with gallons of long words, or boil Him to the rags of metaphysics; and it is not merely that nobody punishes, but nobody protests. But if you speak of God as a fact, as a thing like a tiger, as a reason for changing one’s conduct, then the modern world will stop you somehow if it can. We are long past talking about whether an unbeliever should be punished for being irreverent. It is now thought irreverent to be a believer. I end where I began: it is the old Puritan in Shaw that jars the modern world like an electric shock. That vision with which I meant to end, that vision of culture and common-sense, of red brick and brown flannel321, of the modern clerk broadened enough to embrace Shaw and Shaw softened enough to embrace the clerk, all that vision of a new London begins to fade and alter. The red brick begins to burn red-hot; and the smoke from all the chimneys has a strange smell. I find myself back in the fumes322 in which I started.... Perhaps I have been misled by small modernities. Perhaps what I have called fastidiousness is a divine fear. Perhaps what I have called coldness is a predestinate and ancient endurance. The vision of the Fabian villas323 grows fainter and fainter, until I see only a void place across which runs Bunyan’s Pilgrim with his fingers in his ears.
Bernard Shaw has occupied much of his life in trying to elude324 his followers. The fox has enthusiastic followers, and Shaw seems to regard his in much the same way. This man whom men accuse of bidding for applause seems to me to shrink even from assent325. If you agree with Shaw he is very likely to contradict you; I have contradicted Shaw throughout, that is why I come at last almost to agree with him. His critics have accused him of vulgar self-advertisement; in his relation to his followers he seems to me rather marked with a sort of mad modesty326. He seems to wish to fly from agreement, to have as few followers as possible. All this reaches back, I think, to the three roots from which this meditation327 grew. It is partly the mere impatience and irony of the Irishman. It is partly the thought of the Calvinist that the host of God should be thinned rather than thronged328; that Gideon must reject soldiers rather than recruit them. And it is partly, alas329, the unhappy Progressive trying to be in front of his own religion, trying to destroy his own idol280 and even to desecrate330 his own tomb. But from whatever causes, this furious escape from popularity has involved Shaw in some perversities and refinements331 which are almost mere insincerities, and which make it necessary to disentangle the good he has done from the evil in this dazzling course. I will attempt some summary by stating the three things in which his influence seems to me thoroughly good and the three in which it seems bad. But for the pleasure of ending on the finer note I will speak first of those that seem bad.
The primary respect in which Shaw has been a bad influence is that he has encouraged fastidiousness. He has made men dainty about their moral meals. This is indeed the root of his whole objection to romance. Many people have objected to romance for being too airy and exquisite. Shaw objects to romance for being too rank and coarse. Many have despised romance because it is unreal; Shaw really hates it because it is a great deal too real. Shaw dislikes romance as he dislikes beef and beer, raw brandy or raw beefsteaks. Romance is too masculine for his taste. You will find throughout his criticisms, amid all their truth, their wild justice or pungent332 impartiality, a curious undercurrent of prejudice upon one point: the preference for the refined rather than the rude or ugly. Thus he will dislike a joke because it is coarse without asking if it is really immoral333. He objects to a man sitting down on his hat, whereas the austere143 moralist should only object to his sitting down on someone else’s hat. This sensibility is barren because it is universal. It is useless to object to man being made ridiculous. Man is born ridiculous, as can easily be seen if you look at him soon after he is born. It is grotesque334 to drink beer, but it is equally grotesque to drink soda-water; the grotesqueness335 lies in the act of filling yourself like a bottle through a hole. It is undignified to walk with a drunken stagger; but it is fairly undignified to walk at all, for all walking is a sort of balancing, and there is always in the human being something of a quadruped on its hind292 legs. I do not say he would be more dignified if he went on all fours; I do not know that he ever is dignified except when he is dead. We shall not be refined till we are refined into dust. Of course it is only because he is not wholly an animal that man sees he is a rum animal; and if man on his hind legs is in an artificial attitude, it is only because, like a dog, he is begging or saying thank you.
Everything important is in that sense absurd from the grave baby to the grinning skull336; everything practical is a practical joke. But throughout Shaw’s comedies, curiously enough, there is a certain kicking against this great doom of laughter. For instance, it is the first duty of a man who is in love to make a fool of himself; but Shaw’s heroes always seem to flinch337 from this, and attempt, in airy, philosophic revenge, to make a fool of the woman first. The attempts of Valentine and Charteris to divide their perceptions from their desires, and tell the woman she is worthless even while trying to win her, are sometimes almost torturing to watch; it is like seeing a man trying to play a different tune1 with each hand. I fancy this agony is not only in the spectator, but in the dramatist as well. It is Bernard Shaw struggling with his reluctance338 to do anything so ridiculous as make a proposal. For there are two types of great humorist: those who love to see a man absurd and those who hate to see him absurd. Of the first kind are Rabelais and Dickens; of the second kind are Swift and Bernard Shaw.
So far as Shaw has spread or helped a certain modern reluctance or mauvaise honte in these grand and grotesque functions of man I think he has definitely done harm. He has much influence among the young men; but it is not an influence in the direction of keeping them young. One cannot imagine him inspiring any of his followers to write a war-song or a drinking-song or a love-song, the three forms of human utterance which come next in nobility to a prayer. It may seem odd to say that the net effect of a man so apparently impudent339 will be to make men shy. But it is certainly the truth. Shyness is always the sign of a divided soul; a man is shy because he somehow thinks his position at once despicable and important. If he were without humility he would not care; and if he were without pride he would not care. Now the main purpose of Shaw’s theoretic teaching is to declare that we ought to fulfil these great functions of life, that we ought to eat and drink and love. But the main tendency of his habitual criticism is to suggest that all the sentiments, professions, and postures340 of these things are not only comic but even contemptibly341 comic, follies342 and almost frauds. The result would seem to be that a race of young men may arise who do all these things, but do them awkwardly. That which was of old a free and hilarious343 function becomes an important and embarrassing necessity. Let us endure all the pagan pleasures with a Christian patience. Let us eat, drink, and be serious.
The second of the two points on which I think Shaw has done definite harm is this: that he has (not always or even as a rule intentionally) increased that anarchy344 of thought which is always the destruction of thought. Much of his early writing has encouraged among the modern youth that most pestilent of all popular tricks and fallacies; what is called the argument of progress. I mean this kind of thing. Previous ages were often, alas, aristocratic in politics or clericalist in religion; but they were always democratic in philosophy; they appealed to man, not to particular men. And if most men were against an idea, that was so far against it. But nowadays that most men are against a thing is thought to be in its favour; it is vaguely346 supposed to show that some day most men will be for it. If a man says that cows are reptiles347, or that Bacon wrote Shakespeare, he can always quote the contempt of his contemporaries as in some mysterious way proving the complete conversion222 of posterity348. The objections to this theory scarcely need any elaborate indication. The final objection to it is that it amounts to this: say anything, however idiotic349, and you are in advance of your age. This kind of stuff must be stopped. The sort of democrat92 who appeals to the babe unborn must be classed with the sort of aristocrat345 who appeals to his deceased great-grandfather. Both should be sharply reminded that they are appealing to individuals whom they well know to be at a disadvantage in the matter of prompt and witty350 reply. Now although Bernard Shaw has survived this simple confusion, he has in his time greatly contributed to it. If there is, for instance, one thing that is really rare in Shaw it is hesitation. He makes up his mind quicker than a calculating boy or a county magistrate351. Yet on this subject of the next change in ethics352 he has felt hesitation, and being a strictly honest man has expressed it.
“I know no harder practical question than how much selfishness one ought to stand from a gifted person for the sake of his gifts or on the chance of his being right in the long run. The Superman will certainly come like a thief in the night, and be shot at accordingly; but we cannot leave our property wholly undefended on that account. On the other hand, we cannot ask the Superman simply to add a higher set of virtues to current respectable morals; for he is undoubtedly353 going to empty a good deal of respectable morality out like so much dirty water, and replace it by new and strange customs, shedding old obligations and accepting new and heavier ones. Every step of his progress must horrify354 conventional people; and if it were possible for even the most superior man to march ahead all the time, every pioneer of the march towards the Superman would be crucified.”
When the most emphatic355 man alive, a man unmatched in violent precision of statement, speaks with such avowed356 vagueness and doubt as this, it is no wonder if all his more weak-minded followers are in a mere whirlpool of uncritical and unmeaning innovation. If the superior person will be apparently criminal, the most probable result is simply that the criminal person will think himself superior. A very slight knowledge of human nature is required in the matter. If the Superman may possibly be a thief, you may bet your boots that the next thief will be a Superman. But indeed the Supermen (of whom I have met many) have generally been more weak in the head than in the moral conduct; they have simply offered the first fancy which occupied their minds as the new morality. I fear that Shaw had a way of encouraging these follies. It is obvious from the passage I have quoted that he has no way of restraining them.
The truth is that all feeble spirits naturally live in the future, because it is featureless; it is a soft job; you can make it what you like. The next age is blank, and I can paint it freely with my favourite colour. It requires real courage to face the past, because the past is full of facts which cannot be got over; of men certainly wiser than we and of things done which we could not do. I know I cannot write a poem as good as Lycidas. But it is always easy to say that the particular sort of poetry I can write will be the poetry of the future.
This I call the second evil influence of Shaw: that he has encouraged many to throw themselves for justification upon the shapeless and the unknown. In this, though courageous himself, he has encouraged cowards, and though sincere himself, has helped a mean escape. The third evil in his influence can, I think, be much more shortly dealt with. He has to a very slight extent, but still perceptibly, encouraged a kind of charlatanism357 of utterance among those who possess his Irish impudence without his Irish virtue. For instance, his amusing trick of self-praise is perfectly358 hearty and humorous in him; nay359, it is even humble360; for to confess vanity is itself humble. All that is the matter with the proud is that they will not admit that they are vain. Therefore when Shaw says that he alone is able to write such and such admirable work, or that he has just utterly wiped out some celebrated361 opponent, I for one never feel anything offensive in the tone, but, indeed, only the unmistakable intonation362 of a friend’s voice. But I have noticed among younger, harder, and much shallower men a certain disposition to ape this insolent363 ease and certitude, and that without any fundamental frankness or mirth. So far the influence is bad. Egoism can be learnt as a lesson like any other “ism.” It is not so easy to learn an Irish accent or a good temper. In its lower forms the thing becomes a most unmilitary trick of announcing the victory before one has gained it.
When one has said those three things, one has said, I think, all that can be said by way of blaming Bernard Shaw. It is significant that he was never blamed for any of these things by the Censor. Such censures364 as the attitude of that official involves may be dismissed with a very light sort of disdain365. To represent Shaw as profane366 or provocatively367 indecent is not a matter for discussion at all; it is a disgusting criminal libel upon a particularly respectable gentleman of the middle classes, of refined tastes and somewhat Puritanical368 views. But while the negative defence of Shaw is easy, the just praise of him is almost as complex as it is necessary; and I shall devote the last few pages of this book to a triad corresponding to the last one—to the three important elements in which the work of Shaw has been good as well as great.
In the first place, and quite apart from all particular theories, the world owes thanks to Bernard Shaw for having combined being intelligent with being intelligible369. He has popularised philosophy, or rather he has repopularised it, for philosophy is always popular, except in peculiarly corrupt154 and oligarchic370 ages like our own. We have passed the age of the demagogue, the man who has little to say and says it loud. We have come to the age of the mystagogue or don, the man who has nothing to say, but says it softly and impressively in an indistinct whisper. After all, short words must mean something, even if they mean filth371 or lies; but long words may sometimes mean literally nothing, especially if they are used (as they mostly are in modern books and magazine articles) to balance and modify each other. A plain figure 4, scrawled372 in chalk anywhere, must always mean something; it must always mean 2 + 2. But the most enormous and mysterious algebraic equation, full of letters, brackets, and fractions, may all cancel out at last and be equal to nothing. When a demagogue says to a mob, “There is the Bank of England, why shouldn’t you have some of that money?” he says something which is at least as honest and intelligible as the figure 4. When a writer in the Times remarks, “We must raise the economic efficiency of the masses without diverting anything from those classes which represent the national prosperity and refinement,” then his equation cancels out; in a literal and logical sense his remark amounts to nothing.
There are two kinds of charlatans373 or people called quacks374 today. The power of the first is that he advertises—and cures. The power of the second is that though he is not learned enough to cure he is much too learned to advertise. The former give away their dignity with a pound of tea; the latter are paid a pound of tea merely for being dignified. I think them the worse quacks of the two. Shaw is certainly of the other sort. Dickens, another man who was great enough to be a demagogue (and greater than Shaw because more heartily a demagogue), puts for ever the true difference between the demagogue and the mystagogue in Dr. Marigold: “Except that we’re cheap-jacks and they’re dear-jacks, I don’t see any difference between us.” Bernard Shaw is a great cheap-jack, with plenty of patter and I dare say plenty of nonsense, but with this also (which is not wholly unimportant), with goods to sell. People accuse such a man of self-advertisement. But at least the cheap-jack does advertise his wares375, whereas the don or dear-jack advertises nothing except himself. His very silence, nay his very sterility376, are supposed to be marks of the richness of his erudition. He is too learned to teach, and sometimes too wise even to talk. St. Thomas Aquinas said: “In auctore auctoritas.” But there is more than one man at Oxford377 or Cambridge who is considered an authority because he has never been an author.
Against all this mystification both of silence and verbosity378 Shaw has been a splendid and smashing protest. He has stood up for the fact that philosophy is not the concern of those who pass through Divinity and Greats, but of those who pass through birth and death. Nearly all the most awful and abstruse379 statements can be put in words of one syllable380, from “A child is born” to “A soul is damned.” If the ordinary man may not discuss existence, why should he be asked to conduct it? About concrete matters indeed one naturally appeals to an oligarchy381 or select class. For information about Lapland I go to an aristocracy of Laplanders; for the ways of rabbits to an aristocracy of naturalists382 or, preferably, an aristocracy of poachers. But only mankind itself can bear witness to the abstract first principles of mankind, and in matters of theory I would always consult the mob. Only the mass of men, for instance, have authority to say whether life is good. Whether life is good is an especially mystical and delicate question, and, like all such questions, is asked in words of one syllable. It is also answered in words of one syllable, and Bernard Shaw (as also mankind) answers “yes.”
This plain, pugnacious383 style of Shaw has greatly clarified all controversies384. He has slain385 the polysyllable, that huge and slimy centipede which has sprawled386 over all the valleys of England like the “loathly worm” who was slain by the ancient knight387. He does not think that difficult questions will be made simpler by using difficult words about them. He has achieved the admirable work, never to be mentioned without gratitude388, of discussing Evolution without mentioning it. The good work is of course more evident in the case of philosophy than any other region; because the case of philosophy was a crying one. It was really preposterous that the things most carefully reserved for the study of two or three men should actually be the things common to all men. It was absurd that certain men should be experts on the special subject of everything. But he stood for much the same spirit and style in other matters; in economics, for example. There never has been a better popular economist389; one more lucid, entertaining, consistent, and essentially exact. The very comicality of his examples makes them and their argument stick in the mind; as in the case I remember in which he said that the big shops had now to please everybody, and were not entirely dependent on the lady who sails in “to order four governesses and five grand pianos.” He is always preaching collectivism; yet he does not very often name it. He does not talk about collectivism, but about cash; of which the populace feel a much more definite need. He talks about cheese, boots, perambulators, and how people are really to live. For him economics really means housekeeping, as it does in Greek. His difference from the orthodox economists390, like most of his differences, is very different from the attacks made by the main body of Socialists. The old Manchester economists are generally attacked for being too gross and material. Shaw really attacks them for not being gross or material enough. He thinks that they hide themselves behind long words, remote hypotheses or unreal generalisations. When the orthodox economist begins with his correct and primary formula, “Suppose there is a Man on an Island——” Shaw is apt to interrupt him sharply, saying, “There is a Man in the Street.”
The second phase of the man’s really fruitful efficacy is in a sense the converse391 of this. He has improved philosophic discussions by making them more popular. But he has also improved popular amusements by making them more philosophic. And by more philosophic I do not mean duller, but funnier; that is more varied392. All real fun is in cosmic contrasts, which involve a view of the cosmos393. But I know that this second strength in Shaw is really difficult to state and must be approached by explanations and even by eliminations394. Let me say at once that I think nothing of Shaw or anybody else merely for playing the daring sceptic. I do not think he has done any good or even achieved any effect simply by asking startling questions. It is possible that there have been ages so sluggish395 or automatic that anything that woke them up at all was a good thing. It is sufficient to be certain that ours is not such an age. We do not need waking up; rather we suffer from insomnia396, with all its results of fear and exaggeration and frightful397 waking dreams. The modern mind is not a donkey which wants kicking to make it go on. The modern mind is more like a motor-car on a lonely road which two amateur motorists have been just clever enough to take to pieces, but are not quite clever enough to put together again. Under these circumstances kicking the car has never been found by the best experts to be effective. No one, therefore, does any good to our age merely by asking questions—unless he can answer the questions. Asking questions is already the fashionable and aristocratic sport which has brought most of us into the bankruptcy398 court. The note of our age is a note of interrogation. And the final point is so plain; no sceptical philosopher can ask any questions that may not equally be asked by a tired child on a hot afternoon. “Am I a boy?—Why am I a boy?—Why aren’t I a chair?—What is a chair?” A child will sometimes ask questions of this sort for two hours. And the philosophers of Protestant Europe have asked them for two hundred years.
If that were all that I meant by Shaw making men more philosophic, I should put it not among his good influences but his bad. He did do that to some extent; and so far he is bad. But there is a much bigger and better sense in which he has been a philosopher. He has brought back into English drama all the streams of fact or tendency which are commonly called undramatic. They were there in Shakespeare’s time; but they have scarcely been there since until Shaw. I mean that Shakespeare, being interested in everything, put everything into a play. If he had lately been thinking about the irony and even contradiction confronting us in self-preservation and suicide, he put it all into Hamlet. If he was annoyed by some passing boom in theatrical babies he put that into Hamlet too. He would put anything into Hamlet which he really thought was true, from his favourite nursery ballads to his personal (and perhaps unfashionable) conviction of the Catholic purgatory399. There is no fact that strikes one, I think, about Shakespeare, except the fact of how dramatic he could be, so much as the fact of how undramatic he could be.
In this great sense Shaw has brought philosophy back into drama—philosophy in the sense of a certain freedom of the mind. This is not a freedom to think what one likes (which is absurd, for one can only think what one thinks); it is a freedom to think about what one likes, which is quite a different thing and the spring of all thought. Shakespeare (in a weak moment, I think) said that all the world is a stage. But Shakespeare acted on the much finer principle that a stage is all the world. So there are in all Bernard Shaw’s plays patches of what people would call essentially undramatic stuff, which the dramatist puts in because he is honest and would rather prove his case than succeed with his play. Shaw has brought back into English drama that Shakespearian universality which, if you like, you can call Shakespearian irrelevance400. Perhaps a better definition than either is a habit of thinking the truth worth telling even when you meet it by accident. In Shaw’s plays one meets an incredible number of truths by accident.
To be up to date is a paltry401 ambition except in an almanac, and Shaw has sometimes talked this almanac philosophy. Nevertheless there is a real sense in which the phrase may be wisely used, and that is in cases where some stereotyped402 version of what is happening hides what is really happening from our eyes. Thus, for instance, newspapers are never up to date. The men who write leading articles are always behind the times, because they are in a hurry. They are forced to fall back on their old-fashioned view of things; they have no time to fashion a new one. Everything that is done in a hurry is certain to be antiquated403; that is why modern industrial civilisation bears so curious a resemblance to barbarism. Thus when newspapers say that the Times is a solemn old Tory paper, they are out of date; their talk is behind the talk in Fleet Street. Thus when newspapers say that Christian dogmas are crumbling404, they are out of date; their talk is behind the talk in public-houses. Now in this sense Shaw has kept in a really stirring sense up to date. He has introduced into the theatre the things that no one else had introduced into a theatre—the things in the street outside. The theatre is a sort of thing which proudly sends a hansom-cab across the stage as Realism, while everybody outside is whistling for motor-cabs.
Consider in this respect how many and fine have been Shaw’s intrusions into the theatre with the things that were really going on. Daily papers and daily matinées were still gravely explaining how much modern war depended on gunpowder405. Arms and the Man explained how much modern war depends on chocolate. Every play and paper described the Vicar who was a mild Conservative. Candida caught hold of the modern Vicar who is an advanced Socialist. Numberless magazine articles and society comedies describe the emancipated406 woman as new and wild. Only You Never Can Tell was young enough to see that the emancipated woman is already old and respectable. Every comic paper has caricatured the uneducated upstart. Only the author of Man and Superman knew enough about the modern world to caricature the educated upstart—the man Straker who can quote Beaumarchais, though he cannot pronounce him. This is the second real and great work of Shaw—the letting in of the world on to the stage, as the rivers were let in upon the Augean Stable. He has let a little of the Haymarket into the Haymarket Theatre. He has permitted some whispers of the Strand407 to enter the Strand Theatre. A variety of solutions in philosophy is as silly as it is in arithmetic, but one may be justly proud of a variety of materials for a solution. After Shaw, one may say, there is nothing that cannot be introduced into a play if one can make it decent, amusing, and relevant. The state of a man’s health, the religion of his childhood, his ear for music, or his ignorance of cookery can all be made vivid if they have anything to do with the subject. A soldier may mention the commissariat as well as the cavalry408; and, better still, a priest may mention theology as well as religion. That is being a philosopher; that is bringing the universe on the stage.
Lastly, he has obliterated409 the mere cynic. He has been so much more cynical than anyone else for the public good that no one has dared since to be really cynical for anything smaller. The Chinese crackers410 of the frivolous411 cynics fail to excite us after the dynamite7 of the serious and aspiring412 cynic. Bernard Shaw and I (who are growing grey together) can remember an epoch145 which many of his followers do not know: an epoch of real pessimism. The years from 1885 to 1898 were like the hours of afternoon in a rich house with large rooms; the hours before tea-time. They believed in nothing except good manners; and the essence of good manners is to conceal a yawn. A yawn may be defined as a silent yell. The power which the young pessimist of that time showed in this direction would have astonished anyone but him. He yawned so wide as to swallow the world. He swallowed the world like an unpleasant pill before retiring to an eternal rest. Now the last and best glory of Shaw is that in the circles where this creature was found, he is not. He has not been killed (I don’t know exactly why), but he has actually turned into a Shaw idealist. This is no exaggeration. I meet men who, when I knew them in 1898, were just a little too lazy to destroy the universe. They are now conscious of not being quite worthy to abolish some prison regulations. This destruction and conversion seem to me the mark of something actually great. It is always great to destroy a type without destroying a man. The followers of Shaw are optimists413; some of them are so simple as even to use the word. They are sometimes rather pallid414 optimists, frequently very worried optimists, occasionally, to tell the truth, rather cross optimists: but they not pessimists415; they can exult125 though they cannot laugh. He has at least withered416 up among them the mere pose of impossibility. Like every great teacher, he has cursed the barren fig-tree. For nothing except that impossibility is really impossible.
I know it is all very strange. From the height of eight hundred years ago, or of eight hundred years hence, our age must look incredibly odd. We call the twelfth century ascetic417. We call our own time hedonist and full of praise and pleasure. But in the ascetic age the love of life was evident and enormous, so that it had to be restrained. In an hedonist age pleasure has always sunk low, so that it has to be encouraged. How high the sea of human happiness rose in the Middle Ages, we now only know by the colossal walls that they built to keep it in bounds. How low human happiness sank in the twentieth century our children will only know by these extraordinary modern books, which tell people that it is a duty to be cheerful and that life is not so bad after all. Humanity never produces optimists till it has ceased to produce happy men. It is strange to be obliged to impose a holiday like a fast, and to drive men to a banquet with spears. But this shall be written of our time: that when the spirit who denies besieged418 the last citadel419, blaspheming life itself, there were some, there was one especially, whose voice was heard and whose spear was never broken.
The End
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6 dynamiter | |
n.炸药使用者(尤指革命者) | |
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7 dynamite | |
n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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8 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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9 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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10 acclaiming | |
向…欢呼( acclaim的现在分词 ); 向…喝彩; 称赞…; 欢呼或拥戴(某人)为… | |
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11 buffoon | |
n.演出时的丑角 | |
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12 synthetic | |
adj.合成的,人工的;综合的;n.人工制品 | |
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13 charlatan | |
n.骗子;江湖医生;假内行 | |
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14 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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15 mire | |
n.泥沼,泥泞;v.使...陷于泥泞,使...陷入困境 | |
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16 premature | |
adj.比预期时间早的;不成熟的,仓促的 | |
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17 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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18 overloaded | |
a.超载的,超负荷的 | |
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19 lumbering | |
n.采伐林木 | |
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20 contrived | |
adj.不自然的,做作的;虚构的 | |
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21 superstitions | |
迷信,迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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22 superstition | |
n.迷信,迷信行为 | |
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23 paradox | |
n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法;自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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24 socialist | |
n.社会主义者;adj.社会主义的 | |
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25 liar | |
n.说谎的人 | |
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26 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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27 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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28 camaraderie | |
n.同志之爱,友情 | |
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29 hearty | |
adj.热情友好的;衷心的;尽情的,纵情的 | |
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30 outspoken | |
adj.直言无讳的,坦率的,坦白无隐的 | |
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31 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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32 tract | |
n.传单,小册子,大片(土地或森林) | |
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33 profess | |
v.声称,冒称,以...为业,正式接受入教,表明信仰 | |
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34 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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35 sophistries | |
n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 );(一次)诡辩 | |
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36 shaft | |
n.(工具的)柄,杆状物 | |
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37 scavenger | |
n.以腐尸为食的动物,清扫工 | |
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38 metaphor | |
n.隐喻,暗喻 | |
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39 metaphors | |
隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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40 disapprove | |
v.不赞成,不同意,不批准 | |
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41 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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42 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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43 fanatic | |
n.狂热者,入迷者;adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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44 missionary | |
adj.教会的,传教(士)的;n.传教士 | |
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45 remonstrating | |
v.抗议( remonstrate的现在分词 );告诫 | |
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46 consistency | |
n.一贯性,前后一致,稳定性;(液体的)浓度 | |
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47 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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48 contradictory | |
adj.反驳的,反对的,抗辩的;n.正反对,矛盾对立 | |
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49 vistas | |
长条形景色( vista的名词复数 ); 回顾; 展望; (未来可能发生的)一系列情景 | |
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50 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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51 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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52 fatuously | |
adv.愚昧地,昏庸地,蠢地 | |
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53 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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54 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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55 outrageous | |
adj.无理的,令人不能容忍的 | |
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56 sane | |
adj.心智健全的,神志清醒的,明智的,稳健的 | |
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57 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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58 entangled | |
adj.卷入的;陷入的;被缠住的;缠在一起的v.使某人(某物/自己)缠绕,纠缠于(某物中),使某人(自己)陷入(困难或复杂的环境中)( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59 patriotism | |
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
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60 lucid | |
adj.明白易懂的,清晰的,头脑清楚的 | |
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61 ethic | |
n.道德标准,行为准则 | |
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62 ethical | |
adj.伦理的,道德的,合乎道德的 | |
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63 socialists | |
社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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64 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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65 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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66 hubbub | |
n.嘈杂;骚乱 | |
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67 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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68 superstitious | |
adj.迷信的 | |
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69 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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70 taut | |
adj.拉紧的,绷紧的,紧张的 | |
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71 tingling | |
v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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72 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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73 blessings | |
n.(上帝的)祝福( blessing的名词复数 );好事;福分;因祸得福 | |
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74 irrelevant | |
adj.不恰当的,无关系的,不相干的 | |
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75 prehistoric | |
adj.(有记载的)历史以前的,史前的,古老的 | |
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76 paradoxes | |
n.似非而是的隽语,看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 );用于语言文学中的上述隽语;有矛盾特点的人[事物,情况] | |
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77 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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78 lust | |
n.性(淫)欲;渴(欲)望;vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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79 vow | |
n.誓(言),誓约;v.起誓,立誓 | |
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80 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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81 fidelity | |
n.忠诚,忠实;精确 | |
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82 citizenship | |
n.市民权,公民权,国民的义务(身份) | |
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83 drearily | |
沉寂地,厌倦地,可怕地 | |
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84 tyrant | |
n.暴君,专制的君主,残暴的人 | |
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85 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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86 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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87 rustic | |
adj.乡村的,有乡村特色的;n.乡下人,乡巴佬 | |
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88 ballads | |
民歌,民谣,特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 ); 讴 | |
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89 audacity | |
n.大胆,卤莽,无礼 | |
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90 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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91 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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92 democrat | |
n.民主主义者,民主人士;民主党党员 | |
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93 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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94 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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95 unities | |
n.统一体( unity的名词复数 );(艺术等) 完整;(文学、戏剧) (情节、时间和地点的)统一性;团结一致 | |
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96 meticulous | |
adj.极其仔细的,一丝不苟的 | |
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97 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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98 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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99 allusion | |
n.暗示,间接提示 | |
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100 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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101 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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102 playwrights | |
n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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103 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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104 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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105 summarise | |
vt.概括,总结 | |
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106 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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107 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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108 courageous | |
adj.勇敢的,有胆量的 | |
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109 logician | |
n.逻辑学家 | |
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110 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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111 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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112 posture | |
n.姿势,姿态,心态,态度;v.作出某种姿势 | |
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113 unreasonable | |
adj.不讲道理的,不合情理的,过度的 | |
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114 impartial | |
adj.(in,to)公正的,无偏见的 | |
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115 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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116 lottery | |
n.抽彩;碰运气的事,难于算计的事 | |
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117 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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118 imperative | |
n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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119 irrational | |
adj.无理性的,失去理性的 | |
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120 impedes | |
阻碍,妨碍,阻止( impede的第三人称单数 ) | |
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121 literally | |
adv.照字面意义,逐字地;确实 | |
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122 animation | |
n.活泼,兴奋,卡通片/动画片的制作 | |
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123 immutable | |
adj.不可改变的,永恒的 | |
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124 omnivorous | |
adj.杂食的 | |
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125 exult | |
v.狂喜,欢腾;欢欣鼓舞 | |
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126 exultation | |
n.狂喜,得意 | |
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127 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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128 optimist | |
n.乐观的人,乐观主义者 | |
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129 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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130 pessimist | |
n.悲观者;悲观主义者;厌世 | |
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131 bugle | |
n.军号,号角,喇叭;v.吹号,吹号召集 | |
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132 fable | |
n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
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133 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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134 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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135 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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136 asphyxiated | |
v.渴望的,有抱负的,追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的过去式和过去分词 );有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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137 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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138 depict | |
vt.描画,描绘;描写,描述 | |
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139 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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140 culminate | |
v.到绝顶,达于极点,达到高潮 | |
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141 constructive | |
adj.建设的,建设性的 | |
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142 austerely | |
adv.严格地,朴质地 | |
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143 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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144 joyously | |
ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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145 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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146 overlap | |
v.重叠,与…交叠;n.重叠 | |
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147 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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148 atheist | |
n.无神论者 | |
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149 perversions | |
n.歪曲( perversion的名词复数 );变坏;变态心理 | |
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150 begotten | |
v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 );产生,引起 | |
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151 materialism | |
n.[哲]唯物主义,唯物论;物质至上 | |
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152 brutality | |
n.野蛮的行为,残忍,野蛮 | |
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153 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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154 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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155 decadence | |
n.衰落,颓废 | |
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156 pessimism | |
n.悲观者,悲观主义者,厌世者 | |
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157 salvation | |
n.(尤指基督)救世,超度,拯救,解困 | |
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158 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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159 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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160 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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161 victorious | |
adj.胜利的,得胜的 | |
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162 doctrine | |
n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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163 materialistic | |
a.唯物主义的,物质享乐主义的 | |
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164 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165 satire | |
n.讽刺,讽刺文学,讽刺作品 | |
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166 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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167 gush | |
v.喷,涌;滔滔不绝(说话);n.喷,涌流;迸发 | |
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168 depicting | |
描绘,描画( depict的现在分词 ); 描述 | |
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169 ironical | |
adj.讽刺的,冷嘲的 | |
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170 preposterous | |
adj.荒谬的,可笑的 | |
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171 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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172 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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173 commonsense | |
adj.有常识的;明白事理的;注重实际的 | |
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174 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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175 manifestations | |
n.表示,显示(manifestation的复数形式) | |
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176 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
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177 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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178 glorification | |
n.赞颂 | |
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179 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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180 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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181 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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182 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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183 incurable | |
adj.不能医治的,不能矫正的,无救的;n.不治的病人,无救的人 | |
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184 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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185 frail | |
adj.身体虚弱的;易损坏的 | |
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186 anarchist | |
n.无政府主义者 | |
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187 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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188 unreasonableness | |
无理性; 横逆 | |
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189 immortality | |
n.不死,不朽 | |
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190 pangs | |
突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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191 humane | |
adj.人道的,富有同情心的 | |
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192 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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193 valid | |
adj.有确实根据的;有效的;正当的,合法的 | |
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194 impudence | |
n.厚颜无耻;冒失;无礼 | |
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195 utilitarians | |
功利主义者,实用主义者( utilitarian的名词复数 ) | |
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196 utilitarian | |
adj.实用的,功利的 | |
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197 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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198 solely | |
adv.仅仅,唯一地 | |
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199 militant | |
adj.激进的,好斗的;n.激进分子,斗士 | |
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200 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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201 doctrines | |
n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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202 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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203 invalids | |
病人,残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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204 compassionate | |
adj.有同情心的,表示同情的 | |
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205 rectifying | |
改正,矫正( rectify的现在分词 ); 精馏; 蒸流; 整流 | |
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206 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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207 verbiage | |
n.冗词;冗长 | |
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208 breakdown | |
n.垮,衰竭;损坏,故障,倒塌 | |
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209 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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210 reposed | |
v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211 oracle | |
n.神谕,神谕处,预言 | |
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212 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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213 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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214 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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215 speculations | |
n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 );思考;投机活动;推断 | |
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216 analogous | |
adj.相似的;类似的 | |
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217 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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218 affinity | |
n.亲和力,密切关系 | |
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219 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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220 civic | |
adj.城市的,都市的,市民的,公民的 | |
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221 conversions | |
变换( conversion的名词复数 ); (宗教、信仰等)彻底改变; (尤指为居住而)改建的房屋; 橄榄球(触地得分后再把球射中球门的)附加得分 | |
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222 conversion | |
n.转化,转换,转变 | |
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223 chronological | |
adj.按年月顺序排列的,年代学的 | |
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224 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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225 partially | |
adv.部分地,从某些方面讲 | |
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226 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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227 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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228 radicals | |
n.激进分子( radical的名词复数 );根基;基本原理;[数学]根数 | |
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229 kinsman | |
n.男亲属 | |
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230 proximity | |
n.接近,邻近 | |
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231 suburban | |
adj.城郊的,在郊区的 | |
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232 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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233 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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234 detailed | |
adj.详细的,详尽的,极注意细节的,完全的 | |
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235 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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236 motives | |
n.动机,目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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237 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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238 impartiality | |
n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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239 bully | |
n.恃强欺弱者,小流氓;vt.威胁,欺侮 | |
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240 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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241 cynical | |
adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的,不信世道向善的 | |
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242 frivolity | |
n.轻松的乐事,兴高采烈;轻浮的举止 | |
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243 followers | |
追随者( follower的名词复数 ); 用户; 契据的附面; 从动件 | |
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244 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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245 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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246 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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247 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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248 diatribes | |
n.谩骂,讽刺( diatribe的名词复数 ) | |
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249 entrap | |
v.以网或陷阱捕捉,使陷入圈套 | |
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250 maudlin | |
adj.感情脆弱的,爱哭的 | |
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251 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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252 ballroom | |
n.舞厅 | |
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253 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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254 humbugs | |
欺骗( humbug的名词复数 ); 虚伪; 骗子; 薄荷硬糖 | |
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255 ripens | |
v.成熟,使熟( ripen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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256 chivalry | |
n.骑士气概,侠义;(男人)对女人彬彬有礼,献殷勤 | |
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257 fictitious | |
adj.虚构的,假设的;空头的 | |
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258 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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259 ogling | |
v.(向…)抛媚眼,送秋波( ogle的现在分词 ) | |
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260 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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261 evolutionary | |
adj.进化的;演化的,演变的;[生]进化论的 | |
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262 ranting | |
v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 );大叫大嚷地以…说教;气愤地)大叫大嚷;不停地大声抱怨 | |
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263 chauffeur | |
n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机;v.为…开车 | |
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264 piously | |
adv.虔诚地 | |
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265 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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266 ousted | |
驱逐( oust的过去式和过去分词 ); 革职; 罢黜; 剥夺 | |
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267 kindliness | |
n.厚道,亲切,友好的行为 | |
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268 conjecture | |
n./v.推测,猜测 | |
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269 meddling | |
v.干涉,干预(他人事务)( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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270 alluring | |
adj.吸引人的,迷人的 | |
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271 parasite | |
n.寄生虫;寄生菌;食客 | |
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272 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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273 allotted | |
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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274 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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275 poignant | |
adj.令人痛苦的,辛酸的,惨痛的 | |
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276 abruptness | |
n. 突然,唐突 | |
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277 exasperating | |
adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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278 profligacy | |
n.放荡,不检点,肆意挥霍 | |
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279 ethically | |
adv.在伦理上,道德上 | |
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280 idol | |
n.偶像,红人,宠儿 | |
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281 idols | |
偶像( idol的名词复数 ); 受崇拜的人或物; 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物; 神像 | |
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282 heresy | |
n.异端邪说;异教 | |
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283 culmination | |
n.顶点;最高潮 | |
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284 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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285 eavesdropping | |
n. 偷听 | |
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286 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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287 slur | |
v.含糊地说;诋毁;连唱;n.诋毁;含糊的发音 | |
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288 humility | |
n.谦逊,谦恭 | |
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289 supremely | |
adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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290 garrulous | |
adj.唠叨的,多话的 | |
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291 pretence | |
n.假装,作假;借口,口实;虚伪;虚饰 | |
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292 hind | |
adj.后面的,后部的 | |
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293 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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294 goad | |
n.刺棒,刺痛物;激励;vt.激励,刺激 | |
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295 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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296 landmarks | |
n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 );目标;(标志重要阶段的)里程碑 ~ (in sth);有历史意义的建筑物(或遗址) | |
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297 placidity | |
n.平静,安静,温和 | |
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298 ripples | |
逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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299 ruffling | |
弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 ); 弄乱; 激怒; 扰乱 | |
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300 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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301 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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302 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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303 vegetarian | |
n.素食者;adj.素食的 | |
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304 detests | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的第三人称单数 ) | |
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305 meddle | |
v.干预,干涉,插手 | |
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306 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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307 massacre | |
n.残杀,大屠杀;v.残杀,集体屠杀 | |
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308 accretions | |
n.堆积( accretion的名词复数 );连生;添加生长;吸积 | |
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309 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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310 foul | |
adj.污秽的;邪恶的;v.弄脏;妨害;犯规;n.犯规 | |
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311 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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312 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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313 sanitary | |
adj.卫生方面的,卫生的,清洁的,卫生的 | |
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314 inspector | |
n.检查员,监察员,视察员 | |
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315 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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316 hypocrisy | |
n.伪善,虚伪 | |
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317 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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318 censor | |
n./vt.审查,审查员;删改 | |
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319 professes | |
声称( profess的第三人称单数 ); 宣称; 公开表明; 信奉 | |
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320 wholesome | |
adj.适合;卫生的;有益健康的;显示身心健康的 | |
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321 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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322 fumes | |
n.(强烈而刺激的)气味,气体 | |
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323 villas | |
别墅,公馆( villa的名词复数 ); (城郊)住宅 | |
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324 elude | |
v.躲避,困惑 | |
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325 assent | |
v.批准,认可;n.批准,认可 | |
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326 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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327 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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328 thronged | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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329 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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330 desecrate | |
v.供俗用,亵渎,污辱 | |
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331 refinements | |
n.(生活)风雅;精炼( refinement的名词复数 );改良品;细微的改良;优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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332 pungent | |
adj.(气味、味道)刺激性的,辛辣的;尖锐的 | |
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333 immoral | |
adj.不道德的,淫荡的,荒淫的,有伤风化的 | |
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334 grotesque | |
adj.怪诞的,丑陋的;n.怪诞的图案,怪人(物) | |
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335 grotesqueness | |
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336 skull | |
n.头骨;颅骨 | |
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337 flinch | |
v.畏缩,退缩 | |
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338 reluctance | |
n.厌恶,讨厌,勉强,不情愿 | |
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339 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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340 postures | |
姿势( posture的名词复数 ); 看法; 态度; 立场 | |
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341 contemptibly | |
adv.卑鄙地,下贱地 | |
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342 follies | |
罪恶,时事讽刺剧; 愚蠢,蠢笨,愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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343 hilarious | |
adj.充满笑声的,欢闹的;[反]depressed | |
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344 anarchy | |
n.无政府状态;社会秩序混乱,无秩序 | |
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345 aristocrat | |
n.贵族,有贵族气派的人,上层人物 | |
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346 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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347 reptiles | |
n.爬行动物,爬虫( reptile的名词复数 ) | |
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348 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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349 idiotic | |
adj.白痴的 | |
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350 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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351 magistrate | |
n.地方行政官,地方法官,治安官 | |
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352 ethics | |
n.伦理学;伦理观,道德标准 | |
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353 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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354 horrify | |
vt.使恐怖,使恐惧,使惊骇 | |
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355 emphatic | |
adj.强调的,着重的;无可置疑的,明显的 | |
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356 avowed | |
adj.公开声明的,承认的v.公开声明,承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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357 charlatanism | |
n.庸医术,庸医的行为 | |
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358 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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359 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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360 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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361 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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362 intonation | |
n.语调,声调;发声 | |
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363 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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364 censures | |
v.指责,非难,谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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365 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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366 profane | |
adj.亵神的,亵渎的;vt.亵渎,玷污 | |
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367 provocatively | |
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368 puritanical | |
adj.极端拘谨的;道德严格的 | |
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369 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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370 oligarchic | |
adj.寡头政治的,主张寡头政治的 | |
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371 filth | |
n.肮脏,污物,污秽;淫猥 | |
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372 scrawled | |
乱涂,潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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373 charlatans | |
n.冒充内行者,骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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374 quacks | |
abbr.quacksalvers 庸医,骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 );江湖郎中;(鸭子的)呱呱声v.(鸭子)发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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375 wares | |
n. 货物, 商品 | |
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376 sterility | |
n.不生育,不结果,贫瘠,消毒,无菌 | |
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377 Oxford | |
n.牛津(英国城市) | |
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378 verbosity | |
n.冗长,赘言 | |
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379 abstruse | |
adj.深奥的,难解的 | |
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380 syllable | |
n.音节;vt.分音节 | |
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381 oligarchy | |
n.寡头政治 | |
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382 naturalists | |
n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 );(文学艺术的)自然主义者 | |
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383 pugnacious | |
adj.好斗的 | |
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384 controversies | |
争论 | |
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385 slain | |
杀死,宰杀,杀戮( slay的过去分词 ); (slay的过去分词) | |
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386 sprawled | |
v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词);蔓延;杂乱无序地拓展;四肢伸展坐着(或躺着) | |
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387 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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388 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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389 economist | |
n.经济学家,经济专家,节俭的人 | |
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390 economists | |
n.经济学家,经济专家( economist的名词复数 ) | |
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391 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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392 varied | |
adj.多样的,多变化的 | |
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393 cosmos | |
n.宇宙;秩序,和谐 | |
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394 eliminations | |
n.排除( elimination的名词复数 );除去;根除;淘汰 | |
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395 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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396 insomnia | |
n.失眠,失眠症 | |
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397 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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398 bankruptcy | |
n.破产;无偿付能力 | |
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399 purgatory | |
n.炼狱;苦难;adj.净化的,清洗的 | |
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400 irrelevance | |
n.无关紧要;不相关;不相关的事物 | |
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401 paltry | |
adj.无价值的,微不足道的 | |
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402 stereotyped | |
adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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403 antiquated | |
adj.陈旧的,过时的 | |
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404 crumbling | |
adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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405 gunpowder | |
n.火药 | |
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406 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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407 strand | |
vt.使(船)搁浅,使(某人)困于(某地) | |
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408 cavalry | |
n.骑兵;轻装甲部队 | |
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409 obliterated | |
v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 );涂去;擦掉;彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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410 crackers | |
adj.精神错乱的,癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 );薄脆饼干;(认为)十分愉快的事;迷人的姑娘 | |
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411 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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412 aspiring | |
adj.有志气的;有抱负的;高耸的v.渴望;追求 | |
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413 optimists | |
n.乐观主义者( optimist的名词复数 ) | |
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414 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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415 pessimists | |
n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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416 withered | |
adj. 枯萎的,干瘪的,(人身体的部分器官)因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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417 ascetic | |
adj.禁欲的;严肃的 | |
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418 besieged | |
包围,围困,围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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419 citadel | |
n.城堡;堡垒;避难所 | |
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