Perhaps the best cure for the fear of death is to reflect that life has a beginning as well as an end. There was a time when we were not: this gives us no concern — why, then, should it trouble us that a time will come when we shall cease to be? I have no wish to have been alive a hundred years ago, or in the reign1 of Queen Anne: why should I regret and lay it so much to heart that I shall not be alive a hundred years hence, in the reign of I cannot tell whom?
When Bickerstaff wrote his Essays I knew nothing of the subjects of them; nay2, much later, and but the other day, as it were, in the beginning of the reign of George III., when Goldsmith, Johnson, Burke, used to meet at the Globe, when Garrick was in his glory, and Reynolds was over head and ears with his portraits, and Sterne brought out the volumes of Tristram Shandy year by year, it was without consulting me: I had not the slightest intimation of what was going on: the debates in the House of Commons on the American War, or the firing at Bunker’s Hill, disturbed not me: yet I thought this no evil — I neither ate, drank, nor was merry, yet I did not complain: I had not then looked out into this breathing world, yet I was well; and the world did quite as well without me as I did without it! Why, then, should I make all this outcry about parting with it, and being no worse off than I was before? There is nothing in the recollection that at a certain time we were not come into the world that ‘the gorge3 rises at’— why should we revolt at the idea that we must one day go out of it? To die is only to be as we were before we were born; yet no one feels any remorse4, or regret, or repugnance5, in contemplating6 this last idea. It is rather a relief and disburthening of the mind: it seems to have been holiday-time with us then: we were not called to appear upon the stage of life, to wear robes or tatters, to laugh or cry, be hooted7 or applauded; we had lain perdus all this while, snug8, out of harm’s way; and had slept out our thousands of centuries without wanting to be waked up; at peace and free from care, in a long nonage, in a sleep deeper and calmer than that of infancy9, wrapped in the softest and finest dust. And the worst that we dread10 is, after a short, fretful, feverish12 being, after vain hopes and idle fears, to sink to final repose13 again, and forget the troubled dream of life! . . . Ye armed men, knights15 templars, that sleep in the stone aisles16 of that old Temple church, where all is silent above, and where a deeper silence reigns17 below (not broken by the pealing18 organ), are ye not contented19 where ye lie? Or would you come out of your long homes to go to the Holy War? Or do ye complain that pain no longer visits you, that sickness has done its worst, that you have paid the last debt to nature, that you hear no more of the thickening phalanx of the foe20, or your lady’s waning21 love; and that while this ball of earth rolls its eternal round, no sound shall ever pierce through to disturb your lasting22 repose, fixed23 as the marble over your tombs, breathless as the grave that holds you! And thou, oh! thou, to whom my heart turns, and will turn while it has feeling left, who didst love in vain, and whose first was thy last sigh, wilt24 not thou too rest in peace (or wilt thou cry to me complaining from thy clay-cold bed) when that sad heart is no longer sad, and that sorrow is dead which thou wert only called into the world to feel!
It is certain that there is nothing in the idea of a preexistent state that excites our longing25 like the prospect26 of a posthumous27 existence. We are satisfied to have begun life when we did; we have no ambition to have set out on our journey sooner; and feel that we have had quite enough to do to battle our way through since. We cannot say,
The wars we well remember of King Nine,
Of old Assaracus and Inachus divine.
Neither have we any wish: we are contented to read of them in story, and to stand and gaze at the vast sea of time that separates us from them. It was early days then: the world was not well-aired enough for us: we have no inclination28 to have been up and stirring. We do not consider the six thousand years of the world before we were born as so much time lost to us: we are perfectly29 indifferent about the matter. We do not grieve and lament30 that we did not happen to be in time to see the grand mask and pageant31 of human life going on in all that period; though we are mortified32 at being obliged to quit our stand before the rest of the procession passes.
It may be suggested in explanation of this difference, that we know from various records and traditions what happened in the time of Queen Anne, or even in the reigns of the Assyrian monarchs33, but that we have no means of ascertaining34 what is to happen hereafter but by awaiting the event, and that our eagerness and curiosity are sharpened in proportion as we are in the dark about it. This is not at all the case; for at that rate we should be constantly wishing to make a voyage of discovery to Greenland or to the Moon, neither of which we have, in general, the least desire to do. Neither, in truth, have we any particular solicitude35 to pry36 into the secrets of futurity, but as a pretext37 for prolonging our own existence. It is not so much that we care to be alive a hundred or a thousand years hence, any more than to have been alive a hundred or a thousand years ago: but the thing lies here, that we would all of us wish the present moment to last for ever. We would be as we are, and would have the world remain just as it is, to please us.
The present eye catches the present object —
to have and to hold while it may; and abhors38, on any terms, to have it torn from us, and nothing left in its room. It is the pang39 of parting, the unloosing our grasp, the breaking asunder40 some strong tie, the leaving some cherished purpose unfulfilled, that creates the repugnance to go, and ‘makes calamity41 of so long life,’ as it often is.
O! thou strong heart!
There’s such a covenant42 ‘twixt the world and thee
They’re loth to break!
The love of life, then, is an habitual43 attachment44, not an abstract principle. Simply to be does not ‘content man’s natural desire’: we long to be in a certain time, place, and circumstance. We would much rather be now, ‘on this bank and shoal of time,’ than have our choice of any future period, than take a slice of fifty or sixty years out of the Millennium45, for instance. This shows that our attachment is not confined either to being or to well-being46; but that we have an inveterate47 prejudice in favour of our immediate48 existence, such as it is. The mountaineer will not leave his rock, nor the savage49 his hut; neither are we willing to give up our present mode of life, with all its advantages and disadvantages, for any other that could be substituted for it. No man would, I think, exchange his existence with any other man, however fortunate. We had as lief not be, as not be ourselves. There are some persons of that reach of soul that they would like to live two hundred and fifty years hence, to see to what height of empire America will have grown up in that period, or whether the English constitution will last so long. These are points beyond me. But I confess I should like to live to see the downfall of the Bourbons. That is a vital question with me; and I shall like it the better, the sooner it happens!
No young man ever thinks he shall die. He may believe that others will, or assent50 to the doctrine51 that ‘all men are mortal’ as an abstract proposition, but he is far enough from bringing it home to himself individually.92 Youth, buoyant activity, and animal spirits, hold absolute antipathy52 with old age as well as with death; nor have we, in the hey-day of life, any more than in the thoughtlessness of childhood, the remotest conception how
This sensible warm motion can become
A kneaded clod —
nor how sanguine53, florid health and vigour54, shall ‘turn to withered55, weak, and grey.’ Or if in a moment of idle speculation56 we indulge in this notion of the close of life as a theory, it is amazing at what a distance it seems; what a long, leisurely57 interval58 there is between; what a contrast its slow and solemn approach affords to our present gay dreams of existence! We eye the farthest verge59 of the horizon, and think what a way we shall have to look back upon, ere we arrive at our journey’s end; and without our in the least suspecting it, the mists are at our feet, and the shadows of age encompass60 us. The two divisions of our lives have melted into each other: the extreme points close and meet with none of that romantic interval stretching out between them that we had reckoned upon; and for the rich, melancholy61, solemn hues62 of age, ‘the sear, the yellow leaf,’ the deepening shadows of an autumnal evening, we only feel a dank, cold mist, encircling all objects, after the spirit of youth is fled. There is no inducement to look forward; and what is worse, little interest in looking back to what has become so trite63 and common. The pleasures of our existence have worn themselves out, are ‘gone into the wastes of time,’ or have turned their indifferent side to us: the pains by their repeated blows have worn us out, and have left us neither spirit nor inclination to encounter them again in retrospect64. We do not want to rip up old grievances65, nor to renew our youth like the phoenix66, nor to live our lives twice over. Once is enough. As the tree falls, so let it lie. Shut up the book and close the account once for all!
It has been thought by some that life is like the exploring of a passage that grows narrower and darker the farther we advance, without a possibility of ever turning back, and where we are stifled67 for want of breath at last. For myself, I do not complain of the greater thickness of the atmosphere as I approach the narrow house. I felt it more formerly69,93 when the idea alone seemed to suppress a thousand rising hopes, and weighed upon the pulses of the blood. At present I rather feel a thinness and want of support, I stretch out my hand to some object and find none, I am too much in a world of abstraction; the naked map of life is spread out before me, and in the emptiness and desolation I see Death coming to meet me. In my youth I could not behold70 him for the crowd of objects and feelings, and Hope stood always between us, saying, ‘Never mind that old fellow!’ If I had lived indeed, I should not care to die. But I do not like a contract of pleasure broken off unfulfilled, a marriage with joy unconsummated, a promise of happiness rescinded71. My public and private hopes have been left a ruin, or remain only to mock me. I would wish them to be reedified. I should like to see some prospect of good to mankind, such as my life began with. I should like to leave some sterling72 work behind me. I should like to have some friendly hand to consign73 me to the grave. On these conditions I am ready, if not willing, to depart. I shall then write on my tomb — GRATEFUL AND CONTENTED! But I have thought and suffered too much to be willing to have thought and suffered in vain. — In looking back, it sometimes appears to me as if I had in a manner slept out my life in a dream or shadow on the side of the hill of knowledge, where I have fed on books, on thoughts, on pictures, and only heard in half-murmurs the trampling74 of busy feet, or the noises of the throng75 below. Waked out of this dim, twilight76 existence, and startled with the passing scene, I have felt a wish to descend77 to the world of realities, and join in the chase. But I fear too late, and that I had better return to my bookish chimeras78 and indolence once more! Zanetto, lascia le donne, et studia la matematica. I will think of it.
It is not wonderful that the contemplation and fear of death become more familiar to us as we approach nearer to it: that life seems to ebb79 with the decay of blood and youthful spirits; and that as we find everything about us subject to chance and change, as our strength and beauty die, as our hopes and passions, our friends and our affections leave us, we begin by degrees to feel ourselves mortal!
I have never seen death but once, and that was in an infant. It is years ago. The look was calm and placid80, and the face was fair and firm. It was as if a waxen image had been laid out in the coffin81, and strewed82 with innocent flowers. It was not like death, but more like an image of life! No breath moved the lips, no pulse stirred, no sight or sound would enter those eyes or ears more. While I looked at it, I saw no pain was there; it seemed to smile at the short pang of life which was over: but I could not bear the coffin-lid to be closed — it seemed to stifle68 me; and still as the nettles83 wave in a corner of the churchyard over his little grave, the welcome breeze helps to refresh me, and ease the tightness at my breast!
An ivory or marble image, like Chantry’s monument of the two children, is contemplated84 with pure delight. Why do we not grieve and fret11 that the marble is not alive, or fancy that it has a shortness of breath? It never was alive; and it is the difficulty of making the transition from life to death, the struggle between the two in our imagination, that confounds their properties painfully together, and makes us conceive that the infant that is but just dead, still wants to breathe, to enjoy, and look about it, and is prevented by the icy hand of death, locking up its faculties85 and benumbing its senses; so that, if it could, it would complain of its own hard state. Perhaps religious considerations reconcile the mind to this change sooner than any others, by representing the spirit as fled to another sphere, and leaving the body behind it. So in reflecting on death generally, we mix up the idea of life with it, and thus make it the ghastly monster it is. We think, how we should feel, not how the dead feel.
Still from the tomb the voice of nature cries;
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires!
There is an admirable passage on this subject in Tucker’s Light of Nature Pursued, which I shall transcribe86, as by much the best illustration I can offer of it.
‘The melancholy appearance of a lifeless body, the mansion87 provided for it to inhabit, dark, cold, close and solitary88, are shocking to the imagination; but it is to the imagination only, not the understanding; for whoever consults this faculty89 will see at first glance, that there is nothing dismal90 in all these circumstances: if the corpse91 were kept wrapped up in a warm bed, with a roasting fire in the chamber92, it would feel no comfortable warmth therefrom; were store of tapers93 lighted up as soon as day shuts in, it would see no objects to divert it; were it left at large it would have no liberty, nor if surrounded with company would be cheered thereby94; neither are the distorted features expressions of pain, uneasiness, or distress95. This every one knows, and will readily allow upon being suggested, yet still cannot behold, nor even cast a thought upon those objects without shuddering96; for knowing that a living person must suffer grievously under such appearances, they become habitually97 formidable to the mind, and strike a mechanical horror, which is increased by the customs of the world around us.’
There is usually one pang added voluntarily and unnecessarily to the fear of death, by our affecting to compassionate98 the loss which others will have in us. If that were all, we might reasonably set our minds at rest. The pathetic exhortation99 on country tombstones, ‘Grieve not for me, my wife and children dear,’ etc., is for the most part speedily followed to the letter. We do not leave so great a void in society as we are inclined to imagine, partly to magnify our own importance, and partly to console ourselves by sympathy. Even in the same family the gap is not so great; the wound closes up sooner than we should expect. Nay, our room is not unfrequently thought better than our company. People walk along the streets the day after our deaths just as they did before, and the crowd is not diminished. While we were living, the world seemed in a manner to exist only for us, for our delight and amusement, because it contributed to them. But our hearts cease to beat, and it goes on as usual, and thinks no more about us than it did in our lifetime. The million are devoid100 of sentiment, and care as little for you or me as if we belonged to the moon. We live the week over in the Sunday’s paper, or are decently interred101 in some obituary102 at the month’s end! It is not surprising that we are forgotten so soon after we quit this mortal stage; we are scarcely noticed while we are on it. It is not merely that our names are not known in China — they have hardly been heard of in the next street. We are hand and glove with the universe, and think the obligation is mutual103. This is an evident fallacy. If this, however, does not trouble us now, it will not hereafter. A handful of dust can have no quarrel to pick with its neighbours, or complaint to make against Providence104, and might well exclaim, if it had but an understanding and a tongue, ‘Go thy ways, old world, swing round in blue ether, voluble to every age, you and I shall no more jostle!’
It is amazing how soon the rich and titled, and even some of those who have wielded105 great political power, are forgotten.
A little rule, a little sway,
Is all the great and mighty106 have
Betwixt the cradle and the grave —
and, after its short date, they hardly leave a name behind them. ‘A great man’s memory may, at the common rate, survive him half a year.’ His heirs and successors take his titles, his power, and his wealth — all that made him considerable or courted by others; and he has left nothing else behind him either to delight or benefit the world. Posterity107 are not by any means so disinterested108 as they are supposed to be. They give their gratitude109 and admiration110 only in return for benefits conferred. They cherish the memory of those to whom they are indebted for instruction and delight; and they cherish it just in proportion to the instruction and delight they are conscious they receive. The sentiment of admiration springs immediately from this ground, and cannot be otherwise than well founded.94
The effeminate clinging to life as such, as a general or abstract idea, is the effect of a highly civilised and artificial state of society. Men formerly plunged111 into all the vicissitudes112 and dangers of war, or staked their all upon a single die, or some one passion, which if they could not have gratified, life became a burden to them — now our strongest passion is to think, our chief amusement is to read new plays, new poems, new novels, and this we may do at our leisure, in perfect security, ad infinitum. If we look into the old histories and romances, before the belles-lettres neutralised human affairs and reduced passion to a state of mental equivocation113, we find the heroes and heroines not setting their lives ‘at a pin’s fee,’ but rather courting opportunities of throwing them away in very wantonness of spirit. They raise their fondness for some favourite pursuit to its height, to a pitch of madness, and think no price too dear to pay for its full gratification. Everything else is dross114. They go to death as to a bridal bed, and sacrifice themselves or others without remorse at the shrine115 of love, of honour, of religion, or any other prevailing116 feeling. Romeo runs his ‘sea-sick, weary bark upon the rocks’ of death the instant he finds himself deprived of his Juliet; and she clasps his neck in their last agonies, and follows him to the same fatal shore. One strong idea takes possession of the mind and overrules every other; and even life itself, joyless without that, becomes an object of indifference117 or loathing118. There is at least more of imagination in such a state of things, more vigour of feeling and promptitude to act, than in our lingering, languid, protracted119 attachment to life for its own poor sake. It is, perhaps, also better, as well as more heroical, to strike at some daring or darling object, and if we fail in that, to take the consequences manfully, than to renew the lease of a tedious, spiritless, charmless existence, merely (as Pierre says) ‘to lose it afterwards in some vile120 brawl’ for some worthless object. Was there not a spirit of martyrdom as well as a spice of the reckless energy of barbarism in this bold defiance121 of death? Had not religion something to do with it: the implicit122 belief in a future life, which rendered this of less value, and embodied123 something beyond it to the imagination; so that the rough soldier, the infatuated lover, the valorous knight14, etc., could afford to throw away the present venture, and take a leap into the arms of futurity, which the modern sceptic shrinks back from, with all his boasted reason and vain philosophy, weaker than a woman! I cannot help thinking so myself; but I have endeavoured to explain this point before, and will not enlarge farther on it here.
A life of action and danger moderates the dread of death. It not only gives us fortitude124 to bear pain, but teaches us at every step the precarious125 tenure126 on which we hold our present being. Sedentary and studious men are the most apprehensive127 on this score. Dr. Johnson was an instance in point. A few years seemed to him soon over, compared with those sweeping128 contemplations on time and infinity129 with which he had been used to pose himself. In the still-life of a man of letters there was no obvious reason for a change. He might sit in an arm-chair and pour out cups of tea to all eternity130. Would it had been possible for him to do so! The most rational cure after all for the inordinate131 fear of death is to set a just value on life. If we merely wish to continue on the scene to indulge our headstrong humours and tormenting132 passions, we had better begone at once; and if we only cherish a fondness for existence according to the good we derive133 from it, the pang we feel at parting with it will not be very severe!
The End
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1
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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3
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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6
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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12
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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aisles
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| n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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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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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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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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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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abhors
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| v.憎恶( abhor的第三人称单数 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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42
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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45
millennium
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| n.一千年，千禧年；太平盛世 | |
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46
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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47
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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48
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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49
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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50
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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51
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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52
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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53
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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54
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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55
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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56
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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57
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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58
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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59
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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60
encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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61
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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62
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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63
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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64
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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65
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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66
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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67
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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68
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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69
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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70
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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71
rescinded
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| v.废除，取消( rescind的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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73
consign
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| vt.寄售（货品），托运，交托，委托 | |
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74
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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75
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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76
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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77
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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78
chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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79
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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81
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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82
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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83
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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84
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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85
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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86
transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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87
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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88
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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89
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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91
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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92
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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93
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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94
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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95
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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96
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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97
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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98
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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99
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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100
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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101
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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103
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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104
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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105
wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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106
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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107
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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108
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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109
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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110
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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111
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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112
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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113
equivocation
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| n.模棱两可的话，含糊话 | |
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114
dross
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| n.渣滓；无用之物 | |
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115
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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116
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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117
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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118
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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119
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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120
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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121
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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122
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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123
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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124
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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125
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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126
tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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127
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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128
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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129
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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130
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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131
inordinate
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| adj.无节制的；过度的 | |
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132
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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133
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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