I cannot see, then, any rational or logical ground for that mighty4 difference in the value which mankind generally set upon the past and future, as if the one was everything, and the other nothing — of no consequence whatever. On the other hand, I conceive that the past is as real and substantial a part of our being, that it is as much a bona fide, undeniable consideration in the estimate of human life, as the future can possibly be. To say that the past is of no importance, unworthy of a moment’s regard, because it has gone by, and is no longer anything, is an argument that cannot be held to any purpose; for if the past has ceased to be, and is therefore to be accounted nothing in the scale of good or evil, the future is yet to come, and has never been anything. Should any one choose to assert that the present only is of any value in a strict and positive sense, because that alone has a real existence, that we should seize the instant good, and give all else to the winds, I can understand what he means (though perhaps he does not himself);13 but I cannot comprehend how this distinction between that which has a downright and sensible, and that which has only a remote and airy existence, can be applied6 to establish the preference of the future over the past; for both are in this point of view equally ideal, absolutely nothing, except as they are conceived of by the mind’s eye, and are thus rendered present to the thoughts and feelings. Nay7, the one is even more imaginary, a more fantastic creature of the brain than the other, and the interest we take in it more shadowy and gratuitous8; for the future, on which we lay so much stress, may never come to pass at all, that is, may never be embodied9 into actual existence in the whole course of events, whereas the past has certainly existed once, has received the stamp of truth, and left an image of itself behind. It is so far then placed beyond the possibility of doubt, or as the poet has it,
Those joys are lodg’d beyond the reach of fate.
It is not, however, attempted to be denied that though the future is nothing at present, and has no immediate10 interest while we are speaking, yet it is of the utmost consequence in itself, and of the utmost interest to the individual, because it will have a real existence, and we have an idea of it as existing in time to come. Well, then, the past also has no real existence; the actual sensation and the interest belonging to it are both fled; but it has had a real existence, and we can still call up a vivid recollection of it as having once been; and therefore, by parity12 of reasoning, it is not a thing perfectly13 insignificant14 in itself, nor wholly indifferent to the mind whether it ever was or not. Oh no! Far from it! Let us not rashly quit our hold upon the past, when perhaps there may be little else left to bind15 us to existence. Is it nothing to have been, and to have been happy or miserable16? Or is it a matter of no moment to think whether I have been one or the other? Do I delude17 myself, do I build upon a shadow or a dream, do I dress up in the gaudy18 garb19 of idleness and folly20 a pure fiction, with nothing answering to it in the universe of things and the records of truth, when I look back with fond delight or with tender regret to that which was at one time to me my all, when I revive the glowing image of some bright reality,
The thoughts of which can never from my heart?
Do I then muse21 on nothing, do I bend my eyes on nothing, when I turn back in fancy to ‘those suns and skies so pure’ that lighted up my early path? Is it to think of nothing, to set an idle value upon nothing, to think of all that has happened to me, an of all that can ever interest me? Or, to use the language of a fine poet (who is himself among my earliest and not least painful recollections)—
What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever vanish’d from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of glory in the grass, of splendour in the flow’r —
yet am I mocked with a lie when I venture to think of it? Or do I not drink in and breathe again the air of heavenly truth when I but ‘retrace its footsteps, and its skirts far off adore’? I cannot say with the same poet —
And see how dark the backward stream,
A little moment past so smiling —
for it is the past that gives me most delight and most assurance of reality. What to me constitutes the great charm of the Confessions22 of Rousseau is their turning so much upon this feeling. He seems to gather up the past moments of his being like drops of honey-dew to distil23 a precious liquor from them; his alternate pleasures and pains are the bead-roll that he tells over and piously24 worships; he makes a rosary of the flowers of hope and fancy that strewed25 his earliest years. When he begins the last of the Reveries of a Solitary26 Walker, ‘Il y a aujourd’hui, jour des Paques Fleuris, cinquante ans depuis que j’ai premier27 vu Madame Warens,’ what a yearning28 of the soul is implied in that short sentence! Was all that had happened to him, all that he had thought and felt in that sad interval29 of time, to be accounted nothing? Was that long, dim, faded retrospect30 of years happy or miserable — a blank that was not to make his eyes fail and his heart faint within him in trying to grasp all that had once filled it and that had since vanished, because it was not a prospect31 into futurity? Was he wrong in finding more to interest him in it than in the next fifty years — which he did not live to see? Or if he had, what then? Would they have been worth thinking of, compared with the times of his youth, of his first meeting with Madame Warens, with those times which he has traced with such truth and pure delight ‘in our heart’s tables’? When ‘all the life of life was flown,’ was he not to live the first and best part of it over again, and once more be all that he then was? — Ye woods that crown the clear lone5 brow of Norman Court, why do I revisit ye so oft, and feel a soothing32 consciousness of your presence, but that your high tops waving in the wind recall to me the hours and years that are for ever fled; that ye renew in ceaseless murmurs33 the story of long-cherished hopes and bitter disappointment; that in your solitudes35 and tangled36 wilds I can wander and lose myself as I wander on and am lost in the solitude34 of my own heart; and that as your rustling37 branches give the loud blast to the waste below — borne on the thoughts of other years, I can look down with patient anguish38 at the cheerless desolation which I feel within! Without that face pale as the primrose39 with hyacinthine locks, for ever shunning40 and for ever haunting me, mocking my waking thoughts as in a dream; without that smile which my heart could never turn to scorn; without those eyes dark with their own lustre41, still bent42 on mine, and drawing the soul into their liquid mazes43 like a sea of love; without that name trembling in fancy’s ear; without that form gliding44 before me like Oread or Dryad in fabled45 groves46, what should I do? how pass away the listless, leaden-footed hours? Then wave, wave on, ye woods of Tuderley, and lift your high tops in the air; my sighs and vows47 uttered by our mystic voice breathe into me my former being, and enable me to bear the thing I am! — The objects that we have known in better days are the main props48 that sustain the weight of our affections, and give us strength to await our future lot. The future is like a dead wall or a thick mist hiding all objects from our view; the past is alive and stirring with objects, bright or solemn, and of unfading interest. What is it in fact that we recur49 to oftenest? What subjects do we think or talk of? Not the ignorant future, but the well-stored past. Othello, the Moor50 of Venice, amused himself and his hearers at the house of Signor Brabantio by ‘running through the story of his life even from his boyish days’; and oft ‘beguiled them of their tears, when he did speak of some disastrous51 stroke which his youth suffered.’ This plan of ingratiating himself would not have answered if the past had been, like the contents of an old almanac, of no use but to be thrown aside and forgotten. What a blank, for instance, does the history of the world for the next six thousand years present to the mind, compared with that of the last! All that strikes the imagination or excites any interest in the mighty scene is what has been!14
Neither in itself, then, nor as a subject of general contemplation, has the future any advantage over the past. But with respect to our grosser passions and pursuits it has. As far as regards the appeal to the understanding or the imagination, the past is just as good, as real, of as much intrinsic and ostensible52 value as the future; but there is another principle in the human mind, the principle of action or will; and of this the past has no hold, the future engrosses53 it entirely54 to itself. It is this strong lever of the affections that gives so powerful a bias55 to our sentiments on this subject, and violently transposes the natural order of our associations. We regret the pleasures we have lost, and eagerly anticipate those which are to come: we dwell with satisfaction on the evils from which we have escaped (Posthaec meminisse iuvabit)— and dread56 future pain. The good that is past is in this sense like money that is spent, which is of no further use, and about which we give ourselves little concern. The good we expect is like a store yet untouched, and in the enjoyment57 of which we promise ourselves infinite gratification. What has happened to us we think of no consequence: what is to happen to us, of the greatest. Why so? Simply because the one is still in our power, and the other not — because the efforts of the will to bring any object to pass or to prevent it strengthen our attachment58 or aversion to that object — because the pains and attention bestowed59 upon anything add to our interest in it — and because the habitual60 and earnest pursuit of any end redoubles the ardour of our expectations, and converts the speculative61 and indolent satisfaction we might otherwise feel in it into real passion. Our regrets, anxiety, and wishes are thrown away upon the past; but the insisting on the importance of the future is of the utmost use in aiding our resolutions and stimulating62 our exertions64. If the future were no more amenable65 to our wills than the past; if our precautions, our sanguine schemes, our hopes and fears were of as little avail in the one case as the other; if we could neither soften66 our minds to pleasure, nor steel our fortitude67 to the resistance of pain beforehand; if all objects drifted along by us like straws or pieces of wood in a river, the will being purely68 passive, and as little able to avert69 the future as to arrest the past, we should in that case be equally indifferent to both; that is, we should consider each as they affected70 the thoughts and imagination with certain sentiments of approbation71 or regret, but without the importunity72 of action, the irritation73 of the will, throwing the whole weight of passion and prejudice into one scale, and leaving the other quite empty. While the blow is coming, we prepare to meet it, we think to ward2 off or break its force, we arm ourselves with patience to endure what cannot be avoided, we agitate74 ourselves with fifty needless alarms about it; but when the blow is struck, the pang75 is over, the struggle is no longer necessary, and we cease to harass76 or torment77 ourselves about it more than we can help. It is not that the one belongs to the future and the other to time past; but that the one is a subject of action, of uneasy apprehension78, of strong passion, and that the other has passed wholly out of the sphere of action into the region of
Calm contemplation and majestic79 pains.15
It would not give a man more concern to know that he should be put to the rack a year hence, than to recollect11 that he had been put to it a year ago, but that he hopes to avoid the one, whereas he must sit down patiently under the consciousness of the other. In this hope he wears himself out in vain struggles with fate, and puts himself to the rack of his imagination every day he has to live in the meanwhile. When the event is so remote or so independent of the will as to set aside the necessity of immediate action, or to baffle all attempts to defeat it, it gives us little more disturbance80 or emotion than if it had already taken place, or were something to happen in another state of being, or to an indifferent person. Criminals are observed to grow more anxious as their trial approaches; but after their sentence is passed, they become tolerably resigned, and generally sleep sound the night before its execution.
It in some measure confirms this theory, that men attach more or less importance to past and future events according as they are more or less engaged in action and the busy scenes of life. Those who have a fortune to make, or are in pursuit of rank and power, think little of the past, for it does not contribute greatly to their views: those who have nothing to do but to think, take nearly the same interest in the past as in the future. The contemplation of the one is as delightful81 and real as that of the other. The season of hope has an end; but the remembrance of it is left. The past still lives in the memory of those who have leisure to look back upon the way that they have trod, and can from it ‘catch-glimpses that may make them less forlorn.’ The turbulence82 of action, and uneasiness of desire, must point to the future: it is only in the quiet innocence83 of shepherds, in the simplicity84 of pastoral ages, that a tomb was found with this inscription85 —‘I ALSO WAS AN ARCADIAN!’
Though I by no means think that our habitual attachment to life is in exact proportion to the value of the gift, yet I am not one of those splenetic persons who affect to think it of no value at all. Que peu de chose est la vie humaine, is an exclamation86 in the mouths of moralists and philosophers, to which I cannot agree. It is little, it is short, it is not worth having, if we take the last hour, and leave out all that has gone before, which has been one way of looking at the subject. Such calculators seem to say that life is nothing when it is over, and that may in their sense be true. If the old rule —Respice finem— were to be made absolute, and no one could be pronounced fortunate till the day of his death, there are few among us whose existence would, upon those conditions, be much to be envied. But this is not a fair view of the case. A man’s life is his whole life, not the last glimmering87 snuff of the candle; and this, I say, is considerable, and not a little matter, whether we regard its pleasures or its pains. To draw a peevish88 conclus desires or forgetful indifference89 is about as reasonable as to say, a man never was young because he has grown old, or never lived because he is now dead. The length or agreeableness of a journey does not depend on the few last steps of it, nor is the size of a building to be judged of from the last stone that is added to it. It is neither the first nor last hour of our existence, but the space that parts these two — not our exit nor our entrance upon the stage, but what we do, feel, and think while there — that we are to attend to in pronouncing sentence upon it. Indeed it would be easy to show that it is the very extent of human life, the infinite number of things contained in it, its contradictory90 and fluctuating interests, the transition from one situation to another, the hours, months, years spent in one fond pursuit after another; that it is, in a word, the length of our common journey and the quantity of events crowded into it, that, baffling the grasp of our actual perception, make it slide from our memory, and dwindle91 into nothing in its own perspective. It is too mighty for us, and we say it is nothing! It is a speck92 in our fancy, and yet what canvas would be big enough to hold its striking groups, its endless subjects! It is light as vanity, and yet if all its weary moments, if all its head and heart aches were compressed into one, what fortitude would not be overwhelmed with the blow! What a huge heap, a ‘huge, dumb heap,’ of wishes, thoughts, feelings, anxious cares, soothing hopes, loves, joys, friendships, it is composed of! How many ideas and trains of sentiment, long and deep and intense, often pass through the mind in only one day’s thinking or reading, for instance! How many such days are there in a year, how many years in a long life, still occupied with something interesting, still recalling some old impression, still recurring93 to some difficult question and making progress in it, every step accompanied with a sense of power, and every moment conscious of ‘the high endeavour or the glad success’; for the mind seizes only on that which keeps it employed, and is wound up to a certain pitch of pleasurable excitement or lively solicitude94, by the necessity of its own nature. The division of the map of life into its component95 parts is beautifully made by King Henry VI.:—
Oh God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely96 swain,
To sit upon a hill as I do now,
To carve out dials quaintly97, point by point,
Thereby98 to see the minutes how they run
How many make the hour full complete,
How many hours bring about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live:
When this is known, then to divide the times;
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate99,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean,
So many months ere I shall shear100 the fleece:
So many minutes, hours, weeks, months, and years
Past over to the end they were created,
Would bring grey hairs unto a quiet grave.
I myself am neither a king nor a shepherd: books have been my fleecy charge, and my thoughts have been my subjects. But these have found me sufficient employment at the time, and enough to think of for the time to come.
The passions contract and warp101 the natural progress of life. They paralyse all of it that is not devoted102 to their tyranny and caprice. This makes the difference between the laughing innocence of childhood, the pleasantness of youth, and the crabbedness of age. A load of cares lies like a weight of guilt103 upon the mind: so that a man of business often has all the air, the distraction104 and restlessness and hurry of feeling of a criminal. A knowledge of the world takes away the freedom and simplicity of thought as effectually as the contagion105 of its example. The artlessness and candour of our early years are open to all impressions alike, because the mind is not clogged106 and preoccupied107 with other objects. Our pleasures and our pains come single, make room for one another, and the spring of the mind is fresh and unbroken, its aspect clear and unsullied. Hence ‘the tear forgot as soon as shed, the sunshine of the breast.’ But as we advance farther, the will gets greater head. We form violent antipathies108 and indulge exclusive preferences. We make up our minds to some one thing, and if we cannot have that, will have nothing. We are wedded109 to opinion, to fancy, to prejudice; which destroys the soundness of our judgments110, and the serenity111 and buoyancy of our feelings. The chain of habit coils itself round the heart, like a serpent, to gnaw112 and stifle113 it. It grows rigid114 and callous115; and for the softness and elasticity116 of childhood, full of proud flesh and obstinate117 tumours118. The violence and perversity119 of our passions come in more and more to overlay our natural sensibility and well-grounded affections; and we screw ourselves up to aim only at those things which are neither desirable nor practicable. Thus life passes away in the feverish120 irritation of pursuit and the certainty of disappointment. By degrees, nothing but this morbid121 state of feeling satisfies us: and all common pleasures and cheap amusements are sacrificed to the demon122 of ambition, avarice123, or dissipation. The machine is overwrought: the parching124 heat of the veins125 dries up and withers126 the flowers of Love, Hope, and Joy; and any pause, any release from the rack of ecstasy127 on which we are stretched, seems more insupportable than the pangs128 which we endure. We are suspended between tormenting129 desires and the horrors of ennui130. The impulse of the will, like the wheels of a carriage going down hill, becomes too strong for the driver, Reason, and cannot be stopped nor kept within bounds. Some idea, some fancy, takes possession of the brain; and however ridiculous, however distressing131, however ruinous, haunts us by a sort of fascination132 through life.
Not only is this principle of excessive irritability133 to be seen at work in our more turbulent passions and pursuits, but even in the formal study of arts and sciences, the same thing takes place, and undermines the repose134 and happiness of life. The eagerness of pursuit overcomes the satisfaction to result from the accomplishment135. The mind is overstrained to attain136 its purpose; and when it is attained137, the ease and alacrity138 necessary to enjoy it are gone. The irritation of action does not cease and go down with the occasion for it; but we are first uneasy to get to the end of our work, and then uneasy for want of something to do. The ferment139 of the brain does not of itself subside140 into pleasure and soft repose. Hence the disposition141 to strong stimuli142 observable in persons of much intellectual exertion63 to allay143 and carry off the over-excitement. The improvisatori poets (it is recorded by Spence in his Anecdotes144 of Pope) cannot sleep after an evening’s continued display of their singular and difficult art. The rhymes keep running in their head in spite of themselves, and will not let them rest. Mechanics and labouring people never know what to do with themselves on a Sunday, though they return to their work with greater spirit for the relief, and look forward to it with pleasure all the week. Sir Joshua Reynolds was never comfortable out of his painting-room, and died of chagrin145 and regret because he could not paint on to the last moment of his life. He used to say that he could go on retouching a picture for ever, as long as it stood on his easel; but as soon as it was once fairly out of the house, he never wished to see it again. An ingenious artist of our own time has been heard to declare, that if ever the Devil got him into his clutches, he would set him to copy his own pictures. Thus secure, self-complacent retrospect to what is done is nothing, while the anxious, uneasy looking forward to what is to come is everything. We are afraid to dwell upon the past, lest it should retard146 our future progress; the indulgence of ease is fatal to excellence147; and to succeed in life, we lose the ends of being!
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1
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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4
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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7
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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parity
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| n.平价，等价，比价，对等 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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15
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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distil
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| vt.蒸馏；提取…的精华，精选出 | |
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piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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42
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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43
mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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44
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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45
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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47
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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48
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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49
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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50
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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51
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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52
ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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53
engrosses
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| v.使全神贯注( engross的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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55
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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56
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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57
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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58
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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59
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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61
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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62
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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63
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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64
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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65
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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66
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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67
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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68
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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69
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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70
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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71
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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72
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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73
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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74
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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75
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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76
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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77
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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81
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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82
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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83
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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84
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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85
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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86
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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87
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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88
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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89
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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90
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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91
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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92
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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93
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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94
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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95
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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96
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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97
quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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98
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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99
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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100
shear
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| n.修剪，剪下的东西，羊的一岁；vt.剪掉，割，剥夺；vi.修剪，切割，剥夺，穿越 | |
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101
warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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102
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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103
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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104
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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105
contagion
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| n.(通过接触的疾病)传染；蔓延 | |
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106
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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107
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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108
antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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109
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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111
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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112
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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113
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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114
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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115
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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116
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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117
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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118
tumours
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| 肿瘤( tumour的名词复数 ) | |
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119
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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120
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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121
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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122
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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123
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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124
parching
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| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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125
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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126
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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127
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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128
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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129
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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130
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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131
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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132
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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133
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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134
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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135
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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136
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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137
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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138
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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139
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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140
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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141
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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142
stimuli
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| n.刺激（物） | |
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143
allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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144
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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145
chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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146
retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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147
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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