The doctrine2 of the Stoics3 or of any other sect4 as to the force of Destiny is a bubble engendered5 by the imagination of man, and is near akin6 to Atheism7. I not only believe in one God, but my faith as a Christian8 is also grafted9 upon that tree of philosophy which has never spoiled anything.
I believe in the existence of an immaterial God, the Author and Master of all beings and all things, and I feel that I never had any doubt of His existence, from the fact that I have always relied upon His providence10, prayed to Him in my distress11, and that He has always granted my prayers. Despair brings death, but prayer does away with despair; and when a man has prayed he feels himself supported by new confidence and endowed with power to act. As to the means employed by the Sovereign Master of human beings to avert12 impending13 dangers from those who beseech14 His assistance, I confess that the knowledge of them is above the intelligence of man, who can but wonder and adore. Our ignorance becomes our only resource, and happy, truly happy; are those who cherish their ignorance! Therefore must we pray to God, and believe that He has granted the favour we have been praying for, even when in appearance it seems the reverse. As to the position which our body ought to assume when we address ourselves to the Creator, a line of Petrarch settles it:
‘Con le ginocchia della mente inchine.’
Man is free, but his freedom ceases when he has no faith in it; and the greater power he ascribes to faith, the more he deprives himself of that power which God has given to him when He endowed him with the gift of reason. Reason is a particle of the Creator’s divinity. When we use it with a spirit of humility15 and justice we are certain to please the Giver of that precious gift. God ceases to be God only for those who can admit the possibility of His non-existence, and that conception is in itself the most severe punishment they can suffer.
Man is free; yet we must not suppose that he is at liberty to do everything he pleases, for he becomes a slave the moment he allows his actions to be ruled by passion. The man who has sufficient power over himself to wait until his nature has recovered its even balance is the truly wise man, but such beings are seldom met with.
The reader of these Memoirs16 will discover that I never had any fixed17 aim before my eyes, and that my system, if it can be called a system, has been to glide18 away unconcernedly on the stream of life, trusting to the wind wherever it led. How many changes arise from such an independent mode of life! My success and my misfortunes, the bright and the dark days I have gone through, everything has proved to me that in this world, either physical or moral, good comes out of evil just as well as evil comes out of good. My errors will point to thinking men the various roads, and will teach them the great art of treading on the brink19 of the precipice20 without falling into it. It is only necessary to have courage, for strength without self- confidence is useless. I have often met with happiness after some imprudent step which ought to have brought ruin upon me, and although passing a vote of censure21 upon myself I would thank God for his mercy. But, by way of compensation, dire22 misfortune has befallen me in consequence of actions prompted by the most cautious wisdom. This would humble23 me; yet conscious that I had acted rightly I would easily derive24 comfort from that conviction.
In spite of a good foundation of sound morals, the natural offspring of the Divine principles which had been early rooted in my heart, I have been throughout my life the victim of my senses; I have found delight in losing the right path, I have constantly lived in the midst of error, with no consolation25 but the consciousness of my being mistaken. Therefore, dear reader, I trust that, far from attaching to my history the character of impudent26 boasting, you will find in my Memoirs only the characteristic proper to a general confession, and that my narratory style will be the manner neither of a repenting27 sinner, nor of a man ashamed to acknowledge his frolics. They are the follies29 inherent to youth; I make sport of them, and, if you are kind, you will not yourself refuse them a good-natured smile. You will be amused when you see that I have more than once deceived without the slightest qualm of conscience, both knaves30 and fools. As to the deceit perpetrated upon women, let it pass, for, when love is in the way, men and women as a general rule dupe each other. But on the score of fools it is a very different matter. I always feel the greatest bliss31 when I recollect32 those I have caught in my snares33, for they generally are insolent34, and so self-conceited that they challenge wit. We avenge35 intellect when we dupe a fool, and it is a victory not to be despised for a fool is covered with steel and it is often very hard to find his vulnerable part. In fact, to gull36 a fool seems to me an exploit worthy37 of a witty38 man. I have felt in my very blood, ever since I was born, a most unconquerable hatred39 towards the whole tribe of fools, and it arises from the fact that I feel myself a blockhead whenever I am in their company. I am very far from placing them in the same class with those men whom we call stupid, for the latter are stupid only from deficient40 education, and I rather like them. I have met with some of them — very honest fellows, who, with all their stupidity, had a kind of intelligence and an upright good sense, which cannot be the characteristics of fools. They are like eyes veiled with the cataract41, which, if the disease could be removed, would be very beautiful.
Dear reader, examine the spirit of this preface, and you will at once guess at my purpose. I have written a preface because I wish you to know me thoroughly42 before you begin the reading of my Memoirs. It is only in a coffee-room or at a table d’hote that we like to converse43 with strangers.
I have written the history of my life, and I have a perfect right to do so; but am I wise in throwing it before a public of which I know nothing but evil? No, I am aware it is sheer folly44, but I want to be busy, I want to laugh, and why should I deny myself this gratification?
‘Expulit elleboro morbum bilemque mero.’
An ancient author tells us somewhere, with the tone of a pedagogue45, if you have not done anything worthy of being recorded, at least write something worthy of being read. It is a precept46 as beautiful as a diamond of the first water cut in England, but it cannot be applied47 to me, because I have not written either a novel, or the life of an illustrious character. Worthy or not, my life is my subject, and my subject is my life. I have lived without dreaming that I should ever take a fancy to write the history of my life, and, for that very reason, my Memoirs may claim from the reader an interest and a sympathy which they would not have obtained, had I always entertained the design to write them in my old age, and, still more, to publish them.
I have reached, in 1797, the age of three-score years and twelve; I can not say, Vixi, and I could not procure48 a more agreeable pastime than to relate my own adventures, and to cause pleasant laughter amongst the good company listening to me, from which I have received so many tokens of friendship, and in the midst of which I have ever lived. To enable me to write well, I have only to think that my readers will belong to that polite society:
‘Quoecunque dixi, si placuerint, dictavit auditor49.’
Should there be a few intruders whom I can not prevent from perusing50 my Memoirs, I must find comfort in the idea that my history was not written for them.
By recollecting51 the pleasures I have had formerly52, I renew them, I enjoy them a second time, while I laugh at the remembrance of troubles now past, and which I no longer feel. A member of this great universe, I speak to the air, and I fancy myself rendering53 an account of my administration, as a steward54 is wont55 to do before leaving his situation. For my future I have no concern, and as a true philosopher, I never would have any, for I know not what it may be: as a Christian, on the other hand, faith must believe without discussion, and the stronger it is, the more it keeps silent. I know that I have lived because I have felt, and, feeling giving me the knowledge of my existence, I know likewise that I shall exist no more when I shall have ceased to feel.
Should I perchance still feel after my death, I would no longer have any doubt, but I would most certainly give the lie to anyone asserting before me that I was dead.
The history of my life must begin by the earliest circumstance which my memory can evoke56; it will therefore commence when I had attained57 the age of eight years and four months. Before that time, if to think is to live be a true axiom, I did not live, I could only lay claim to a state of vegetation. The mind of a human being is formed only of comparisons made in order to examine analogies, and therefore cannot precede the existence of memory. The mnemonic organ was developed in my head only eight years and four months after my birth; it is then that my soul began to be susceptible58 of receiving impressions. How is it possible for an immaterial substance, which can neither touch nor be touched to receive impressions? It is a mystery which man cannot unravel59.
A certain philosophy, full of consolation, and in perfect accord with religion, pretends that the state of dependence60 in which the soul stands in relation to the senses and to the organs, is only incidental and transient, and that it will reach a condition of freedom and happiness when the death of the body shall have delivered it from that state of tyrannic subjection. This is very fine, but, apart from religion, where is the proof of it all? Therefore, as I cannot, from my own information, have a perfect certainty of my being immortal61 until the dissolution of my body has actually taken place, people must kindly62 bear with me, if I am in no hurry to obtain that certain knowledge, for, in my estimation, a knowledge to be gained at the cost of life is a rather expensive piece of information. In the mean time I worship God, laying every wrong action under an interdict63 which I endeavour to respect, and I loathe64 the wicked without doing them any injury. I only abstain65 from doing them any good, in the full belief that we ought not to cherish serpents.
As I must likewise say a few words respecting my nature and my temperament66, I premise67 that the most indulgent of my readers is not likely to be the most dishonest or the least gifted with intelligence.
I have had in turn every temperament; phlegmatic68 in my infancy69; sanguine70 in my youth; later on, bilious71; and now I have a disposition72 which engenders73 melancholy74, and most likely will never change. I always made my food congenial to my constitution, and my health was always excellent. I learned very early that our health is always impaired75 by some excess either of food or abstinence, and I never had any physician except myself. I am bound to add that the excess in too little has ever proved in me more dangerous than the excess in too much; the last may cause indigestion, but the first causes death.
Now, old as I am, and although enjoying good digestive organs, I must have only one meal every day; but I find a set-off to that privation in my delightful76 sleep, and in the ease which I experience in writing down my thoughts without having recourse to paradox77 or sophism78, which would be calculated to deceive myself even more than my readers, for I never could make up my mind to palm counterfeit79 coin upon them if I knew it to be such.
The sanguine temperament rendered me very sensible to the attractions of voluptuousness80: I was always cheerful and ever ready to pass from one enjoyment81 to another, and I was at the same time very skillful in inventing new pleasures. Thence, I suppose, my natural disposition to make fresh acquaintances, and to break with them so readily, although always for a good reason, and never through mere82 fickleness83. The errors caused by temperament are not to be corrected, because our temperament is perfectly84 independent of our strength: it is not the case with our character. Heart and head are the constituent85 parts of character; temperament has almost nothing to do with it, and, therefore, character is dependent upon education, and is susceptible of being corrected and improved.
I leave to others the decision as to the good or evil tendencies of my character, but such as it is it shines upon my countenance86, and there it can easily be detected by any physiognomist. It is only on the fact that character can be read; there it lies exposed to the view. It is worthy of remark that men who have no peculiar87 cast of countenance, and there are a great many such men, are likewise totally deficient in peculiar characteristics, and we may establish the rule that the varieties in physiognomy are equal to the differences in character. I am aware that throughout my life my actions have received their impulse more from the force of feeling than from the wisdom of reason, and this has led me to acknowledge that my conduct has been dependent upon my nature more than upon my mind; both are generally at war, and in the midst of their continual collisions I have never found in me sufficient mind to balance my nature, or enough strength in my nature to counteract88 the power of my mind. But enough of this, for there is truth in the old saying: ‘Si brevis esse volo, obscurus fio’, and I believe that, without offending against modesty89, I can apply to myself the following words of my dear Virgil:
‘Nec sum adeo informis: nuper me in littore vidi
Cum placidum ventis staret mare90.’
The chief business of my life has always been to indulge my senses; I never knew anything of greater importance. I felt myself born for the fair sex, I have ever loved it dearly, and I have been loved by it as often and as much as I could. I have likewise always had a great weakness for good living, and I ever felt passionately91 fond of every object which excited my curiosity.
I have had friends who have acted kindly towards me, and it has been my good fortune to have it in my power to give them substantial proofs of my gratitude92. I have had also bitter enemies who have persecuted93 me, and whom I have not crushed simply because I could not do it. I never would have forgiven them, had I not lost the memory of all the injuries they had heaped upon me. The man who forgets does not forgive, he only loses the remembrance of the harm inflicted94 on him; forgiveness is the offspring of a feeling of heroism95, of a noble heart, of a generous mind, whilst forgetfulness is only the result of a weak memory, or of an easy carelessness, and still oftener of a natural desire for calm and quietness. Hatred, in the course of time, kills the unhappy wretch96 who delights in nursing it in his bosom97.
Should anyone bring against me an accusation98 of sensuality he would be wrong, for all the fierceness of my senses never caused me to neglect any of my duties. For the same excellent reason, the accusation of drunkenness ought not to have been brought against Homer:
‘Laudibus arguitur vini vinosus Homerus.’
I have always been fond of highly-seasoned, rich dishes, such as macaroni prepared by a skilful99 Neapolitan cook, the olla-podrida of the Spaniards, the glutinous100 codfish from Newfoundland, game with a strong flavour, and cheese the perfect state of which is attained when the tiny animaculae formed from its very essence begin to shew signs of life. As for women, I have always found the odour of my beloved ones exceeding pleasant.
What depraved tastes! some people will exclaim. Are you not ashamed to confess such inclinations101 without blushing! Dear critics, you make me laugh heartily102. Thanks to my coarse tastes, I believe myself happier than other men, because I am convinced that they enhance my enjoyment. Happy are those who know how to obtain pleasures without injury to anyone; insane are those who fancy that the Almighty103 can enjoy the sufferings, the pains, the fasts and abstinences which they offer to Him as a sacrifice, and that His love is granted only to those who tax themselves so foolishly. God can only demand from His creatures the practice of virtues105 the seed of which He has sown in their soul, and all He has given unto us has been intended for our happiness; self-love, thirst for praise, emulation106, strength, courage, and a power of which nothing can deprive us — the power of self-destruction, if, after due calculation, whether false or just, we unfortunately reckon death to be advantageous107. This is the strongest proof of our moral freedom so much attacked by sophists. Yet this power of self-destruction is repugnant to nature, and has been rightly opposed by every religion.
A so-called free-thinker told me at one time that I could not consider myself a philosopher if I placed any faith in revelation. But when we accept it readily in physics, why should we reject it in religious matters? The form alone is the point in question. The spirit speaks to the spirit, and not to the ears. The principles of everything we are acquainted with must necessarily have been revealed to those from whom we have received them by the great, supreme108 principle, which contains them all. The bee erecting109 its hive, the swallow building its nest, the ant constructing its cave, and the spider warping110 its web, would never have done anything but for a previous and everlasting111 revelation. We must either believe that it is so, or admit that matter is endowed with thought. But as we dare not pay such a compliment to matter, let us stand by revelation.
The great philosopher, who having deeply studied nature, thought he had found the truth because he acknowledged nature as God, died too soon. Had he lived a little while longer, he would have gone much farther, and yet his journey would have been but a short one, for finding himself in his Author, he could not have denied Him: In Him we move and have our being. He would have found Him inscrutable, and thus would have ended his journey.
God, great principle of all minor112 principles, God, who is Himself without a principle, could not conceive Himself, if, in order to do it, He required to know His own principle.
Oh, blissful ignorance! Spinosa, the virtuous113 Spinosa, died before he could possess it. He would have died a learned man and with a right to the reward his virtue104 deserved, if he had only supposed his soul to be immortal!
It is not true that a wish for reward is unworthy of real virtue, and throws a blemish114 upon its purity. Such a pretension115, on the contrary, helps to sustain virtue, man being himself too weak to consent to be virtuous only for his own ‘gratification. I hold as a myth that Amphiaraus who preferred to be good than to seem good. In fact, I do not believe there is an honest man alive without some pretension, and here is mine.
I pretend to the friendship, to the esteem116, to the gratitude of my readers. I claim their gratitude, if my Memoirs can give them instruction and pleasure; I claim their esteem if, rendering me justice, they find more good qualities in me than faults, and I claim their friendship as soon as they deem me worthy of it by the candour and the good faith with which I abandon myself to their judgment117, without disguise and exactly as I am in reality. They will find that I have always had such sincere love for truth, that I have often begun by telling stories for the purpose of getting truth to enter the heads of those who could not appreciate its charms. They will not form a wrong opinion of me when they see one emptying the purse of my friends to satisfy my fancies, for those friends entertained idle schemes, and by giving them the hope of success I trusted to disappointment to cure them. I would deceive them to make them wiser, and I did not consider myself guilty, for I applied to my own enjoyment sums of money which would have been lost in the vain pursuit of possessions denied by nature; therefore I was not actuated by any avaricious118 rapacity119. I might think myself guilty if I were rich now, but I have nothing. I have squandered120 everything; it is my comfort and my justification121. The money was intended for extravagant122 follies, and by applying it to my own frolics I did not turn it into a very different, channel.
If I were deceived in my hope to please, I candidly123 confess I would regret it, but not sufficiently124 so to repent28 having written my Memoirs, for, after all, writing them has given me pleasure. Oh, cruel ennui125! It must be by mistake that those who have invented the torments126 of hell have forgotten to ascribe thee the first place among them. Yet I am bound to own that I entertain a great fear of hisses127; it is too natural a fear for me to boast of being insensible to them, and I cannot find any solace128 in the idea that, when these Memoirs are published, I shall be no more. I cannot think without a shudder129 of contracting any obligation towards death: I hate death; for, happy or miserable130, life is the only blessing131 which man possesses, and those who do not love it are unworthy of it. If we prefer honour to life, it is because life is blighted132 by infamy133; and if, in the alternative, man sometimes throws away his life, philosophy must remain silent.
Oh, death, cruel death! Fatal law which nature necessarily rejects because thy very office is to destroy nature! Cicero says that death frees us from all pains and sorrows, but this great philosopher books all the expense without taking the receipts into account. I do not recollect if, when he wrote his ‘Tusculan Disputations’, his own Tullia was dead. Death is a monster which turns away from the great theatre an attentive134 hearer before the end of the play which deeply interests him, and this is reason enough to hate it.
All my adventures are not to be found in these Memoirs; I have left out those which might have offended the persons who have played a sorry part therein. In spite of this reserve, my readers will perhaps often think me indiscreet, and I am sorry for it. Should I perchance become wiser before I give up the ghost, I might burn every one of these sheets, but now I have not courage enough to do it.
It may be that certain love scenes will be considered too explicit135, but let no one blame me, unless it be for lack of skill, for I ought not to be scolded because, in my old age, I can find no other enjoyment but that which recollections of the past afford to me. After all, virtuous and prudish136 readers are at liberty to skip over any offensive pictures, and I think it my duty to give them this piece of advice; so much the worse for those who may not read my preface; it is no fault of mine if they do not, for everyone ought to know that a preface is to a book what the play-bill is to a comedy; both must be read.
My Memoirs are not written for young persons who, in order to avoid false steps and slippery roads, ought to spend their youth in blissful ignorance, but for those who, having thorough experience of life, are no longer exposed to temptation, and who, having but too often gone through the fire, are like salamanders, and can be scorched137 by it no more. True virtue is but a habit, and I have no hesitation138 in saying that the really virtuous are those persons who can practice virtue without the slightest trouble; such persons are always full of toleration, and it is to them that my Memoirs are addressed.
I have written in French, and not in Italian, because the French language is more universal than mine, and the purists, who may criticise139 in my style some Italian turns will be quite right, but only in case it should prevent them from understanding me clearly. The Greeks admired Theophrastus in spite of his Eresian style, and the Romans delighted in their Livy in spite of his Patavinity. Provided I amuse my readers, it seems to me that I can claim the same indulgence. After all, every Italian reads Algarotti with pleasure, although his works are full of French idioms.
There is one thing worthy of notice: of all the living languages belonging to the republic of letters, the French tongue is the only one which has been condemned140 by its masters never to borrow in order to become richer, whilst all other languages, although richer in words than the French, plunder141 from it words and constructions of sentences, whenever they find that by such robbery they add something to their own beauty. Yet those who borrow the most from the French, are the most forward in trumpeting142 the poverty of that language, very likely thinking that such an accusation justifies143 their depredations144. It is said that the French language has attained the apogee145 of its beauty, and that the smallest foreign loan would spoil it, but I make bold to assert that this is prejudice, for, although it certainly is the most clear, the most logical of all languages, it would be great temerity146 to affirm that it can never go farther or higher than it has gone. We all recollect that, in the days of Lulli, there was but one opinion of his music, yet Rameau came and everything was changed. The new impulse given to the French nation may open new and unexpected horizons, and new beauties, fresh perfections, may spring up from new combinations and from new wants.
The motto I have adopted justifies my digressions, and all the commentaries, perhaps too numerous, in which I indulge upon my various exploits: ‘Nequidquam sapit qui sibi non sapit’. For the same reason I have always felt a great desire to receive praise and applause from polite society:
‘Excitat auditor stadium, laudataque virtus
Crescit, et immensum gloria calcar habet.
I would willingly have displayed here the proud axiom: ‘Nemo laeditur nisi a se ipso’, had I not feared to offend the immense number of persons who, whenever anything goes wrong with them, are wont to exclaim, “It is no fault of mine!” I cannot deprive them of that small particle of comfort, for, were it not for it, they would soon feel hatred for themselves, and self-hatred often leads to the fatal idea of self-destruction.
As for myself I always willingly acknowledge my own self as the principal cause of every good or of every evil which may befall me; therefore I have always found myself capable of being my own pupil, and ready to love my teacher.
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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stoics
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| 禁欲主义者，恬淡寡欲的人，不以苦乐为意的人( stoic的名词复数 ) | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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atheism
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| n.无神论，不信神 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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grafted
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| 移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 )； 嫁接； 使（思想、制度等）成为（…的一部份）； 植根 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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follies
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| 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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knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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35
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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36
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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37
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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38
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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39
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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40
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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41
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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42
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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43
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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44
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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45
pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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46
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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47
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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48
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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49
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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50
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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51
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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52
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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53
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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54
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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55
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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56
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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57
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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58
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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59
unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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60
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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61
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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62
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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63
interdict
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| v.限制；禁止；n.正式禁止；禁令 | |
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64
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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65
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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66
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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67
premise
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| n.前提；v.提论，预述 | |
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68
phlegmatic
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| adj.冷静的，冷淡的，冷漠的，无活力的 | |
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69
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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70
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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71
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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72
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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73
engenders
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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75
impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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77
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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78
sophism
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| n.诡辩 | |
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79
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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81
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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82
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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83
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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84
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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85
constituent
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| n.选民；成分，组分；adj.组成的，构成的 | |
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86
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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87
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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88
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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89
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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90
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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91
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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92
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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93
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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94
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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96
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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97
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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98
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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99
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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100
glutinous
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| adj.粘的，胶状的 | |
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101
inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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102
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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103
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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104
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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105
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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106
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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107
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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108
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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109
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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110
warping
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| n.翘面，扭曲，变形v.弄弯，变歪( warp的现在分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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111
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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112
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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113
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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114
blemish
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| v.损害；玷污；瑕疵，缺点 | |
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115
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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116
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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117
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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118
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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119
rapacity
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| n.贪婪，贪心，劫掠的欲望 | |
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120
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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122
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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123
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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124
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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125
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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126
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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127
hisses
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| 嘶嘶声( hiss的名词复数 ) | |
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128
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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129
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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130
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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131
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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132
blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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133
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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134
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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135
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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136
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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137
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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138
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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139
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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140
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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141
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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142
trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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143
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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144
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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145
apogee
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| n.远地点；极点；顶点 | |
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146
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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