I should tell him the thing that was becoming more and more apparent in my own mind. Here, I should say, is a world, obviously on the face of it well organised. Compared with our world, it is like a well-oiled engine beside a scrap-heap. It has even got this confounded visual organ swivelling about in the most alert and lively fashion. But that’s by the way. . . . You have only to look at all these houses below. (We should be sitting on a seat on the Gutsch and looking down on the Lucerne of Utopia, a Lucerne that would, I insist, quite arbitrarily, still keep the Wasserthurm and the Kapellbrucke.) You have only to mark the beauty, the simple cleanliness and balance of this world, you have only to see the free carriage, the unaffected graciousness of even the common people, to understand how fine and complete the arrangements of this world must be. How are they made so? We of the twentieth century are not going to accept the sweetish, faintly nasty slops of Rousseauism that so gratified our great-great-grandparents in the eighteenth. We know that order and justice do not come by Nature —“if only the policeman would go away.” These things mean intention, will, carried to a scale that our poor vacillating, hot and cold earth has never known. What I am really seeing more and more clearly is the will beneath this visible Utopia. Convenient houses, admirable engineering that is no offence amidst natural beauties, beautiful bodies, and a universally gracious carriage, these are only the outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace. Such an order means discipline. It means triumph over the petty egotisms and vanities that keep men on our earth apart; it means devotion and a nobler hope; it cannot exist without a gigantic process of inquiry4, trial, forethought and patience in an atmosphere of mutual5 trust and concession6. Such a world as this Utopia is not made by the chance occasional co-operations of self-indulgent men, by autocratic rulers or by the bawling7 wisdom of the democratic leader. And an unrestricted competition for gain, an enlightened selfishness, that too fails us. . . .
I have compared the system of indexing humanity we have come upon to an eye, an eye so sensitive and alert that two strangers cannot appear anywhere upon the planet without discovery. Now an eye does not see without a brain, an eye does not turn round and look without a will and purpose. A Utopia that deals only with appliances and arrangements is a dream of superficialities; the essential problem here, the body within these garments, is a moral and an intellectual problem. Behind all this material order, these perfected communications, perfected public services and economic organisations, there must be men and women willing these things. There must be a considerable number and a succession of these men and women of will. No single person, no transitory group of people, could order and sustain this vast complexity9. They must have a collective if not a common width of aim, and that involves a spoken or written literature, a living literature to sustain the harmony of their general activity. In some way they must have put the more immediate objects of desire into a secondary place, and that means renunciation. They must be effectual in action and persistent10 in will, and that means discipline. But in the modern world in which progress advances without limits, it will be evident that whatever common creed11 or formula they have must be of the simplest sort; that whatever organisation8 they have must be as mobile and flexible as a thing alive. All this follows inevitably12 from the general propositions of our Utopian dream. When we made those, we bound ourselves helplessly to come to this. . . .
The botanist would nod an abstracted assent13.
I should cease to talk. I should direct my mind to the confused mass of memories three days in Utopia will have given us. Besides the personalities14 with whom we have come into actual contact, our various hosts, our foreman and work-fellows, the blond man, the public officials and so on, there will be a great multitude of other impressions. There will be many bright snapshots of little children, for example, of girls and women and men, seen in shops and offices and streets, on quays15, at windows and by the wayside, people riding hither and thither16 and walking to and fro. A very human crowd it has seemed to me. But among them were there any who might be thought of as having a wider interest than the others, who seemed in any way detached from the rest by a purpose that passed beyond the seen?
Then suddenly I recall that clean-shaven man who talked with us for a little while in the public office at Wassen, the man who reminded me of my boyish conception of a Knight17 Templar, and with him come momentary18 impressions of other lithe19 and serious-looking people dressed after the same manner, words and phrases we have read in such scraps20 of Utopian reading as have come our way, and expressions that fell from the loose mouth of the man with the blond hair. . . .
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1 botanist | |
n.植物学家 | |
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2 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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3 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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4 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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5 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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6 concession | |
n.让步,妥协;特许(权) | |
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7 bawling | |
v.大叫,大喊( bawl的现在分词 );放声大哭;大声叫出;叫卖(货物) | |
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8 organisation | |
n.组织,安排,团体,有机休 | |
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9 complexity | |
n.复杂(性),复杂的事物 | |
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10 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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11 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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12 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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13 assent | |
v.批准,认可;n.批准,认可 | |
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14 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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15 quays | |
码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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16 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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17 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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18 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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19 lithe | |
adj.(指人、身体)柔软的,易弯的 | |
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20 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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