How does he read the Times?
He reads it the way Americans have always read the paper. He also reads it as few Americans have ever read the paper — with nostrils2 sensitive, dilating3 with proud scorn, sniffing4 for the news behind the news.
He loves it — even loves the Times— loves Love unlovable — and don’t we all? Ink-fresh papers, millions of them — ink-fresh with morning, orange juice, waffles, eggs and bacon, and cups of strong hot coffee. How fine it is, here in America, at ink-fresh, coffee-fragrant5 morning, to read the paper!
How often have we read the paper in America! How often have we seen it blocked against our doors! Little route-boys fold and block it, so to throw it — and so we find it and unfold it, crackling and ink-laden, at our doors. Sometimes we find it tossed there lightly with flat plop; sometimes we find it thrown with solid, whizzing whack6 against the clapboards (clapboards here, most often, in America); sometimes, as now in Turtle Bay, servants find just freshly folded sheets laid neatly7 down in doorways8, and take them to the table for their masters. No matter how it got there, we always find it.
How we do love the paper in America! How we do love the paper, all!
Why do we love the paper in America? Why do we love the paper, all?
Mad masters, I will tell ye why.
Because the paper is “the news” here in America, and we love the smell of news. We love the smell of news that’s “fit to print”. We also love the smell of news not fit to print. We love, besides, the smell of facts that news is made of. Therefore we love the paper because the news is so fit-printable — so unprintable — and so fact-printable.
Is the news, then, like America? No, it’s not — and Fox, unlike the rest of you, mad masters, turns the pages knowing it is just the news and not America that he reads there in his Times.
The news is not America, nor is America the news— the news is in America. It is a kind of light at morning, and at evening, and at midnight in America. It is a kind of growth and record and excrescence of our life. It is not good enough — it does not tell our story — yet it is the news!
Fox reads (proud nose sharp-sniffing with a scornful relish):
An unidentified man fell or jumped yesterday at noon from the twelfth storey of the Admiral Francis Drake Hotel, corner of Hay and Apple Streets, in Brooklyn. The man, who was about thirty-five years old, registered at the hotel about a week ago, according to the police, as C. Green. Police are of the opinion that this was an assumed name. Pending9 identification, the body is being held at the King’s County Morgue.
This, then, is news. Is it also the whole story, Admiral Drake? No! Yet we do not supply the whole story — we who have known all the lights and weathers of America — as Fox supplies it now:
Well, then, it’s news, and it happened in your own hotel, brave Admiral Drake. It didn’t happen in the Penn–Pitt at Pittsburgh, nor the Phil–Penn at Philadelphia, nor the York–Albany at Albany, nor the Hudson–Troy at Troy, nor the Libya–Ritz at Libya Hill, nor the Clay–Calhoun at Columbia, nor the Richmond–Lee at Richmond, nor the George Washington at Easton, Pennsylvania, Canton, Ohio, Terre Haute, Indiana, Danville, Virginia, Houston, Texas, and ninety-seven other places; nor at the Abraham Lincoln at Springfield, Massachusetts, Hartford, Connecticut, Wilmington, Delaware, Cairo, Illinois, Kansas City, Missouri, Los Angeles, California, and one hundred and thirty-six other towns; nor at the Andrew Jackson, the Roosevelt (Theodore or Franklin — take your choice), the Jefferson Davis, the Daniel Webster, the Stonewall Jackson, the U.S. Grant, the Commodore Vanderbilt, the Waldorf–Astor, the Adams House, the Parker House, the Palmer House, the Taft, the McKinley, the Emerson (Waldo or Bromo), the Harding, the Coolidge, the Hoover, the Albert G. Fall, the Harry10 Daugherty, the Rockefeller, the Harriman, the Carnegie or the Frick, the Christopher Columbus or the Leif Ericsson, the Ponce-deLeon or the Magellan, in the remaining eight hundred and forty-three cities of America — but at the Francis Drake, brave Admiral — your own hotel — so, of course, you’ll want to know what happened.
“An unidentified man”— well, then, this man was an American. “About thirty-five years old” with “an assumed name”— well, then, call him C. Green as he called himself ironically in the hotel register. C. Green, the unidentified American, “fell or jumped,” then, “yesterday at noon . . . in Brooklyn”— worth nine lines of print in today’s Times— one of seven thousand who died yesterday upon this continent — one of three hundred and fifty who died yesterday in this very city (see dense11, close columns of obituaries12, page 15: begin with “Aaronson”, so through the alphabet to “Zorn”). C. Green came here “a week ago”——
And came from where? From the deep South, or the Mississippi Valley, or the Middle West? From Minneapolis, Bridgeport, Boston, or a little town in Old Catawba? From Scranton, Toledo, St. Louis, or the desert whiteness of Los Angeles? From the pine barrens of the Atlantic coastal13 plain, or from the Pacific shore?
And so — was what, brave Admiral Drake? Had seen, felt, heard, smelled, tasted —what? Had known —what?
Had known all our brutal14 violence of weather: the burned swelter of July across the nation, the smell of the slow, rank river, the mud, the bottom lands, the weed growth, and the hot, coarse, humid fragrance15 of the corn. The kind that says: “Jesus, but it’s hot!”— pulls off his coat, and mops his face, and goes in shirt-sleeves in St. Louis, goes to August’s for a Swiss on rye with mustard, and a mug of beer. The kind that says: “Damn! It’s hot!” in South Carolina, slouches in shirt-sleeves and straw hat down South Main Street, drops into Evans Drug Store for a dope, says to the soda17 jerker: “Is it hot enough fer you today, Jim?” The kind that reads in the paper of the heat, the deaths, and the prostration18, reads it with a certain satisfaction, hangs on grimly day by day and loses sleep at night, can’t sleep for heat, is tired in the morning, says: “Jesus! It can’t last for ever!” as heat lengthens19 into August, and the nation gasps20 for breath, and the green that was young in May now mottles, fades and bleaches21, withers22, goes heat-brown. Will boast of coolness in the mountains, Admiral Drake. “Always cool at night! May get a little warm around the middle of the day, but you’ll sleep with blankets every night.”
Then summer fades and passes, and October comes. Will smell smoke then, and feel an unsuspected sharpness, a thrill of nervous, swift elation23, a sense of sadness and departure. C. Green doesn’t know the reason, Admiral Drake, but lights slant24 and shorten in the afternoon, there is a misty25 pollen26 of old gold in light at noon, a murky27 redness in the lights of dusk, a frosty stillness, and the barking of the dogs; the maples28 flame upon the hills, the gums are burning, bronze the oak leaves and, the aspens yellow; then come the rains, the sodden29 dead-brown of the fallen leaves, the smoke-stark30 branches — and November comes.
Waiting for winter in the little towns, and winter comes. It is really the same in big towns and the cities, too, with the bleak31 enclosure of the winter multiplied. In the commerce of the day, engaged and furious, then darkness, and the bleak monotony of “Where shall we go? What shall we do?” The winter grips us, closes round each house — the stark, harsh light encysts us — and C. Green walks the streets. Sometimes hard lights burn on him, Admiral Drake, bleak faces stream beneath the lights, amusement signs are winking33. On Broadway, the constant plaze of sterile34 lights; in little towns, no less, the clustered raisins35 of hard light on Main Street. On Broadway, swarming37 millions up to midnight; in little towns, hard lights and frozen silence — no one, nothing, after ten o’clock. But in the hearts of C. Greens everywhere, bleak boredom38, undefined despair, and “Christ! Where shall I go now? When will winter end?”
So longs for spring, and wishes it were Saturday, brave Admiral Drake.
Saturday night arrives with the thing that we are waiting for. Oh, it will come to-night; the thing that we have been expecting all our lives will come to-night, on Saturday! ‘On Saturday night across America we are waiting for it, and ninety million Greens go moth-wise to the lights to find it. Surely it will come to-night! So Green goes out to find it, and he finds — hard lights again, saloons along Third Avenue, or the Greek’s place in a little town — and then hard whisky, gin, and drunkenness, and brawls39 and fights and vomit40.
Sunday morning, aching head.
Sunday afternoon, and in the cities the chop-suey signs wink32 on and flash their sterile promises of unborn joy.
Sunday night, and the hard stars, and the bleak enclosures of our wintry weather — the buildings of old rusty41 brick, in cold enclosed, the fronts of old stark brown, the unpainted houses, the deserted42 factories, wharves43, piers44, warehouses45, and office buildings, the tormented46 shabbiness of Sixth Avenues; and in the smaller towns, bleak Main Streets, desolate47 with shabby store fronts and beraisined clusters of lamp standards, and in the residential48 streets of wooden houses (dark by ten o’clock), the moaning of stark branches, the stiff lights, limb-bepatterned, shaking at street corners. The light shines there with wintry bleakness49 on the clapboard front and porch of a shabby house where the policeman lives — blank and desolate upon the stuffy50, boxlike little parlour where the policeman’s daughter amorously51 receives — and almost— not quite— gives. Hot, fevered, fearful, and insatiate, it is all too close to the cold street light — too creaking, panting, flimsy-close to others in the flimsy house — too close to the policeman’s solid and slow-creaking tread — yet somehow valiant52, somehow strong, somehow triumphant53 over the stale varnish54 of the little parlour, the nearness of the street, the light, the creaking boughs55, and papa’s tread — somehow triumphant with hot panting, with rose lips and tender tongue, white underleg and tight-locked thighs56 — by these intimacies57 of fear and fragrant hot desire will beat the ashen58 monotone of time and even the bleak and grey duration of the winter out.
Does this surprise you, Admiral Drake?
“But Christ!”— Green leaves the house, his life is bitter with desire, the stiff light creaks. “When will it end?” thinks Green. “When will spring come?”
It comes at last unhoped for, after hoping, comes when least expected, and when given up. In March there is a day that’s almost spring, and C. Green, strong with will to have it so, says: “Well, it’s here”— and it is gone like smoke. You can’t look spring too closely in the eye in March. Raw days return, and blown light, and gusty59 moanings of the wind. Then April comes, and small, soaking rain. The air is wet and raw and chilled, but with a smell of spring now, a smell of earth, of grass exploding in small patches, here and there a blade, a bud, a leaf. And spring comes, marvellous, for a day or two —“It’s here!” Green thinks. “It’s here at last!”— and he is wrong again. It goes, chill days and greyness and small, soaking rains return. Green loses hope. “There is no spring!” he says. “You never get spring any more; you jump from winter into summer — we’ll have summer now and the hot weather before you know it.”
Then spring comes — explodes out of the earth in a green radiance — comes up overnight! It’s April twenty-eighth — the tree there in the city backyard is smoke-yellow, feathered with the striplings of young leaf! It’s April twenty-ninth — the leaf, the yellow, and the smoke have thickened overnight. April thirtieth — you can watch it grow and thicken with your eye! Then May the first — the tree’s in leaf now, almost full and dense, young, feather-fresh! The whole spring has exploded from the earth!
All’s explosive with us really, Admiral Drake — spring, the brutal summer, frost, October, February in Dakota with fifty-one below, spring floods, two hundred drowning along Ohio bottoms, in Missouri, in New England, all through Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Tennessee. Spring shot at us overnight, and everything with us is vast, explosive, floodlike. A few hundred dead in floods, a hundred in a wave of heat, twelve thousand in a year by murder, thirty thousand with the motor-car — it all means nothing here. Floods like this would drown out France; death like this would plunge60 England in black mourning; but in America a few thousand C. Greens more or less, drowned, murdered, killed by motor-cars, or dead by jumping out of windows on their heads — well, it just means nothing to us — the next flood, or next week’s crop of death and killings61, wash it out. We do things on a large scale, Admiral Drake.
The tar16-smell in the streets now, children shouting, and the smell of earth; the sky shell-blue and faultless, a sapphire62 sparkle everywhere; and in the air the brave stick-candy whippings of a flag. C. Green thinks of the baseball games, the raw-hide arm of Lefty Grove63, the resilient crack of ashwood on the horsehide ball, the waiting pockets of the well-oiled mitts64, the warm smell of the bleachers, the shouted gibes65 of shirt-sleeved men, the sprawl66 and monotone of inning after inning. (Baseball’s a dull game, really; that’s the reason that it is so good. We do not love the game so much as we love the sprawl and drowse and shirt-sleeved apathy67 of it.) On Saturday afternoon, C. Green goes out to the ball park and sits there in the crowd, awaiting the sudden sharpness and the yell of crisis. Then the game ends and the crowd flows out across the green turf of the playing-field. Sunday, Green spends the day out in the country in his flivver, with a girl.
Then summer comes again, heat-blazing summer, humid, murked with mist, sky-glazed with brutal weariness — and C. Green mops his face and sweats and says: “Jesus! Will it never end?”
This, then, is C. Green “thirty-five years old”—“unidentified”— and an American. In what way an American? In what way different from the men you knew, old Drake?
When the ships bore home again and Cape69 St. Vincent blazed in Spaniard’s eye — or when old Drake was returning with his men, beating coastwise from strange seas abreast70, past the Scilly Isles71 towards the slant of evening fields, chalk cliffs, the harbour’s arms, the town’s sweet cluster and the spire72 — where was Green?
When, in red-oak thickets74 at the break of day, coon-skinned, the huntsmen of the wilderness75 lay for bear, heard arrows rattling76 in the laurel leaves, the bullets’ whining77 plunk, and waited with cocked musket78 by the tree — where was Green?
Or when, with strong faces turning towards the setting sun, hawk-eyed and Indian-visaged men bore gun-stocks on the western trails and sternly heard the fierce war-whoops around the Painted Buttes — where, then, was Green?
Was never there with Drake’s men in the evening when the sails stood in from the Americas! Was never there beneath the Spaniard’s swarthy eye at Vincent’s Cape! Was never there in the red-oak thicket73 in the morning! Was never there to hear the war-cries round the Painted Buttes!
No, no. He was no voyager of unknown seas, no pioneer of western trails. He was life’s little man, life’s nameless cypher, life’s man-swarm36 atom, life’s American — and now he lies disjected and exploded on a street in Brooklyn!
He was a dweller79 in mean streets, was Green, a man-mote in the jungle of the city, a resident of grimy steel and stone, a mole80 who burrowed81 in rusty brick, a stunned82 spectator of enormous salmon-coloured towers, hued83 palely with the morning. He was a renter of shabby wooden houses in a little town, an owner of a raw new bungalow85 on the outskirts86 of the town. He was a waker in bleak streets at morning, an alarm-clock watcher, saying: “Jesus, I’ll be late.”— a fellow who took short cuts through the corner lot, behind the advertising87 signs; a fellow used to concrete horrors of hot day and blazing noon; a man accustomed to the tormented hodge-podge of our architectures, used to broken pavements, ash-cans, shabby store fronts, dull green paint, the elevated structure, grinding traffic, noise, and streets betortured with a thousand bleak and dismal88 signs. He was accustomed to the gas tanks going out of town, he was an atom of machinery89 in an endless flow, going, stopping, going to the winking of the lights; he tore down concrete roads on Sundays, past the hot-dog stands and filling-stations; he would return at darkness; hunger lured90 him to the winking splendour of chop-suey signs; and midnight found him in The Coffee Pot, to prowl above a mug of coffee, tear a coffee-cake in fragments, and wear away the slow grey ash of time and boredom with other men in grey hats and with skins of tallow-grey, at Joe the Greek’s.
C. Green could read (which Drake could not), but not too accurately91; could write, too (which the Spaniard couldn’t), but not too well. C. Green had trouble over certain words, spelled them out above the coffee mug at midnight, with a furrowed92 brow, slow-shaping lips, and “Jesus!” when news stunned him — for he read the news. Preferred the news with pictures, too, girls with voluptuous93 legs crossed sensually, dresses above the knees, and plump dolls’ faces full of vacant lechery94. Green liked news “hot”— not as Fox knows it, not subtly sniffing with strange-scornful nostrils for the news behind the news — but straight from the shoulder — socko! — biff! — straight off the griddle, with lots of mustard, shapely legs, roadside wrecks95 and mutilated bodies, gangsters’ molls and gunmen’s hideouts, tallow faces of the night that bluntly stare at flashlight lenses — this and talk of “heart-balm”, “love-thief”, “sex-hijacker”— all of this liked Green.
Yes, Green liked the news — and now, a bit of news himself (nine lines of print in Times), has been disjected and exploded on a Brooklyn pavement!
Well, such was our friend, C. Green, who read, but not too well; and wrote, but not too easily; who smelled, but not too strongly; felt, but not too deeply; saw, but not too clearly — yet had smelled the tar in May, smelled the slow, rank yellow of the rivers, and the clean, coarse corn; had seen the slants96 of evening on the hill-flanks in the Smokies, and the bronze swell97 of the earth, the broad, deep red of Pennsylvania barns, proud-proportioned and as dominant98 across the fields as bulls; had felt the frost and silence in October; had heard the whistles of the train wail99 back in darkness, and the horns of New Year’s Eve, and —“Jesus! There’s another year gone by! What now?”
No Drake was he, no Spaniard, no coon-skin cap, no strong face burning west. Yet, in some remote and protoplasmic portion, he was a little of each of these. A little Scotch100, perhaps, was Green, a little Irish, English, Spanish even, and some German — a little of each part, all compacted and exploded into nameless atom of America!
No. Green — poor little Green — was not a man like Drake. He was just a cinder101 out of life — for the most part, a thinker of base thoughts, a creature of unsharpened, coarse perceptions. He was meagre in the hips68, he did not have much juice or salt in him. Drake gnawed102 the beef from juicy bones in taverns105, drank tankards of brown ale, swore salty curses through his whiskers, wiped his mouth with the back of his hard hand, threw the beef bone to his dog, and pounded with his tankard for more ale. Green ate in cafeterias, prowled at midnight over coffee and a doughnut or a sugar-coated bun, went to the chop-suey joint106 on Saturday nights and swallowed chow mein, noodle soup, and rice. Green’s mouth was mean and thin and common, it ran to looseness and a snarl107; his skin was grey and harsh and dry; his eyes were dull and full of fear. Drake was self-contained: the world his oyster108, seas his pastures, mighty109 distances his wings. His eyes were sea-pale (like the eyes of Fox); his ship was England. Green had no ship, he had a motor-car, and tore down concrete roads on Sunday, and halted with the lights against him with the million other cinders110 hurtling through hot space. Green walked on level concrete sidewalks and on pavements grey, through hot and grimy streets past rusty tenements111. Drake set his sails against the west, he strode the buoyant, sea-washed decks, he took the Spaniard and his gold, and at the end he stood in to the sweet enfoldments of the spire, the clustered town, the emerald fields that slope to Plymouth harbour — then Green came!
We who never saw brave Drake can have no difficulty conjuring112 up an image of the kind of man he was. With equal ease we can imagine the bearded Spaniard, and almost hear his swarthy oaths. But neither Drake nor Spaniard could ever have imagined Green. Who could have foreseen him, this cypher of America, exploded now upon a street in Brooklyn?
Behold113 him, Admiral Drake! Observe the scene now! Listen to the people! Here is something strange as the Armadas, the gold-laden cargoes114 of the bearded Spaniards, the vision of unfound Americas!
What do you see here, Admiral Drake?
Well, first, a building — your own hotel — such a building as the folk of Plymouth never saw. A great block of masonry115, pale-hued, grimy-white, fourteen storeys tall, stamped in an unvarying pattern with many windows. Sheeted glass below, the store front piled with medicines and toilet articles, perfumes, cosmetics116, health contrivances. Within, a soda fountain, Admiral Drake. The men in white with monkey caps, soda jerkers sullen117 with perpetual overdriven irritation118. Beneath the counter, pools of sloppy119 water, filth120, and unwashed dishes. Across the counter, Jewesses with fat, rouged121 lips consuming ice-cream sodas122 and pimento sandwiches.
Outside upon the concrete sidewalk lies the form of our exploded friend, C. Green. A crowd has gathered round — taxi-drivers, passersby123, hangers-on about the subway station, people working in the neighbourhood, and the police. No one has dared to touch exploded Green as yet — they stand there in a rapt and fascinated circle, looking at him.
Not much to look at either, Admiral Drake; not even those who trod your gory124 decks would call the sight a pretty one. Our friend has landed on his head —“taken a nose dive”, as we say — and smashed his brains out at the iron base of the second lamp-post from the corner. (It is the same lamp-post as heretofore described, to be found throughout America — a “standard”, standardised, supporting five hard grapes of frosted glass.)
So here Green lies, on the concrete sidewalk all disjected. No head is left, the head is gone now, head’s exploded; only brains are left. The brains are pink, and almost bloodless, Admiral Drake. (There’s not much blood here — we shall tell you why.) But brains exploded are somewhat like pale sausage meat, fresh-ground. Brains are stuck hard to the lamp-post, too; there is a certain driven emphasis about them, as if they had been shot hydraulically125 out of a force-hose against the post.
The head, as we have said, is gone completely; a few fragments of the skull126 are scattered127 round — but of the face, the features, forehead — nothing! They have all been blown out, as by some inner explosion. Nothing is left but the back of the skull, which curiously128 remains129, completely hollowed out and vacant, and curved over, like the rounded handle of a walking-stick.
The body, five feet eight or nine of it, of middling weight, is lying — we were going to say “face downwards”; had we not better say “stomach downwards”? — on the sidewalk. It is well-dressed, too, in cheap, neatly pressed, machine-made clothes: tan shoes and socks with a clocked pattern, suit of a light texture130, brownish-red in hue84, a neat canary-coloured shirt with attached collar — obviously C. Green had a nice feeling for proprieties131! As for the body itself, save for a certain indefinable and curiously “disjected” quality, one could scarcely tell that every bone in it is broken. The hands are still spread out, half-folded and half-clenched, with a still-warm and startling eloquence132 of recent life. (It happened just four minutes ago!)
Well, where’s the blood, then, Drake? You’re used to blood; you’d like to know. Well, you’ve heard of casting bread upon the waters, Drake, and having it return — but never yet, I’ll vow133, of casting blood upon the streets — and having it run away — and then come back to you! But here it comes now, down the street — down Apple Street, round the corner into Hay, across the street now towards C. Green, the lamp-post, and the crowd! — a young Italian youth, blunt-featured, low-browed, and bewildered, his black eyes blank with horror, tongue mumbling134 thickly, arm held firmly by a policeman, suit and shirt all drenched135 with blood, and face bespattered with it! A stir of sudden interest in the crowd, sharp nudges, low-toned voices whispering:
“Here he is! Th’ guy that ‘got it’! . . . Sure, that’s him — you know him, that Italian kid that works inside in the news-stand — he was standin’ deh beside the post! Sure, that’s the guy! — talkin’ to another guy — he got it all! That’s the reason you didn’t see more blood —this guy got it! — Sure! The guy just missed him by six inches! — Sure! I’m tellin’ you I saw it, ain’t I? I looked up an’ saw him in the air! He’d a hit this guy, but when he saw that he was goin’ to hit the lamp-post, he put out his hands an’ tried to keep away! That’s the reason that he didn’t hit this guy! . . . But this guy heard him when he hit, an’ turned round — and zowie! — he got all of it right in his face!”
And another, whispering and nudging, nodding towards the horror-blank, thick-mumbling Italian boy: “Jesus! Look at th’ guy, will yuh! . . . He don’t know what he’s doing! . . . He don’t know yet what happened to him! . . . Sure! He got it all. I tell yuh! He was standin’ deh beside the post, wit a package undehneath one ahm — an’ when it happened — when he got it — he just stahted runnin’ . . . He don’t know yet what’s happened! . . . That’s what I’m tellin’ yuh — th’ guy just stahted runnin’ when he got it.”
And one policeman (to another): “ . . . Sure, I yelled to Pat to stop him. He caught up with him at Borough137 Hall . . . He just kept on runnin’— he don’t know yet what happened to him.”
And the Italian youth, thick-mumbling: “ . . . Jeez! W’at happened? . . . Jeez! . . . I was standin’ talkin’ to a guy — I heard it hit . . . Jeez! . . . W’at happened, anyway? . . . I got it all oveh me! . . . Jeez! . . . I just stahted runnin’ . . . Jeez! I’m sick!”
Voices: “Here, take ’im into the drug-store! . . . Wash ’im off! . . . That guy needs a shot of liquor! . . . Sure! Take him into the drug-stoeh deh! . . . They’ll fix him up!”
The plump, young, rather effeminate, but very intelligent young Jew who runs the news-stand in the corridor, talking to everyone round him, excitedly and indignantly: “ . . . Did I see it? Listen! I saw everything! I was coming across the street, looked up, and saw him in the air! . . . See it? . . . Listen! If someone had taken a big ripe water-melon and dropped it on the street from the twelfth floor you’d have some idea what it was like! . . . See it! I’ll tell the world I saw it! I don’t want to see anything like that again!” Then excitedly, with a kind of hysterical138 indignation: “Shows no consideration for other people, that’s all I’ve got to say! If a man is going to do a thing like that, why does he pick a place like this— one of the busiest corners in Brooklyn? . . . How did he know he wouldn’t hit someone? Why, if that boy had been standing139 six inches nearer to the post, he’d have killed him, as sure as you live! . . . And here he does it right in front of all these people who have to look at it! It shows he had no consideration for other people! A man who’d do a thing like that . . . ”
(Alas, poor Jew! As if C. Green, now past considering, had considered nice “considerations”.)
A taxi-driver, impatiently: “That’s what I’m tellin’ yuh! . . . I watched him for five minutes before he jumped. He crawled out on the window-sill an’ stood there for five minutes, makin’ up his mind! . . . Sure, I saw him! Lots of people saw him!” Impatiently, irritably:—“Why didn’t we do somethin’ to stop him? F’r Chri’ sake, what was there to do? A guy who’d do a thing like that is nuts to start with! You don’t think he’d listen to anything we had to say, do you? . . . Sure, we did yell at him! . . . Jesus! . . . We was almost afraid to yell at him — we made motions to him to get back — tried to hold his attention while the cops sneaked140 round the corner into the hotel . . . Sure, the cops got there just a second after he jumped — I don’t know if he jumped when he heard ’em comin’, or what happened, but Christ! — he stood there gettin’ ready for five minutes while we watched!”
And a stocky little Czech–Bohemian, who works in the delicatessen-fruit store on the corner, one block down: “Did I hear it! Say, you could have heard it for six blocks! Sure! Everybody heard it! The minute that I heard it, I knew what had happened, too! I come runnin’!”
People press and shuffle141 in the crowd. A man comes round the corner, presses forward to get a better look, runs into a-little fat, baldheaded man in front of him who is staring at the Thing with a pale, sweating, suffering, fascinated face, by accident knocks off the little’ fat man’s straw hat. The new straw hat hits the pavement dryly, the little fat, bald-headed man scrambles142 for it, clutches it, and turns round on the man who has knocked it off, both of them stammering144 frantic145 apologies:
“Oh, excuse me! . . . ‘Scuse me! . . . ‘Scuse me! . . . Sorry!”
“Quite all right . . . All right! . . . All right.”
Observe now, Admiral, with what hypnotic concentration the people are examining the grimy-white facade146 of your hotel. Watch their faces and expressions. Their eyes go travelling upwards147 slowly — up — up — up. The building seems to widen curiously, to be distorted, to flare148 out wedgelike till it threatens to annihilate149 the sky, overwhelm the will, and crush the spirit. (These optics, too, American, Admiral Drake.) The eyes continue on past storey after storey up the wall until they finally arrive and come to rest with focal concentration on that single open window twelve floors up. It is no jot150 different from all the other windows, but now the vision of the crowd is fastened on it with a fatal and united interest. And after staring at it fixedly151, the eyes come travelling slowly down again — down — down — down — the faces strained a little, mouths all slightly puckered152 as if something set the teeth on edge — and slowly, with fascinated measurement — down — down — down — until the eyes reach sidewalk, lamp-post, and — the Thing again.
The pavement finally halts all, stops all, answers all. It is the American pavement, Admiral Drake, our universal city sidewalk, a wide, hard stripe of grey-white cement, blocked accurately with dividing lines. It is the hardest, coldest, cruellest, most impersonal153 pavement in the world: all of the indifference154, the atomic desolation, the exploded nothingness of one hundred million nameless “Greens” is in it.
In Europe, Drake, we find worn stone, all hollowed out and rubbed to rounded edges. For centuries the unknown lives of men now buried touched and wore this stone, and when we see it something stirs within our hearts, and something strange and dark and passionate155 moves our souls, and —“They were here!” we say.
Not so, the streets, the sidewalks, the paved places of America. Has man been here? No. Only unnumbered nameless Greens have swarmed156 and passed here, and none has left a mark.
Did ever the eye go seaward here with searching for the crowded sail, with longing157 for the strange and unknown coasts of Spain? Did ever beauty here come home to the heart and eyes? Did ever, in the thrusting crowd, eye look to eye, and face to face, and heart to heart, and know the moment of their meeting — stop and pause, and be oblivious158 in this place, and make one spot of worn pavement sacred stone? You won’t believe it, Admiral Drake, but it is so — these things have happened on the pavements of America. But, as you see yourself, they have not left their mark.
You, old Drake, when last your fellow townsmen saw you at the sailing of the ships, walked with the crowd along the quay159, past the spire and cluster of the town, down to the cool lap of the water; and from your deck, as you put out, you watched the long, white, fading arm of your own coast. And in the town that you had left were streets still haunted by your voice. There was your worn tread upon the pavement, there the tavern104 table dented160 where you banged your tankard down. And in the evening, when the ships were gone, men waited for your return.
But no return is here among us in America. Here are no streets still haunted by departed men. Here is no street at all, as you knew streets. Here are just our cement Mobways, unannealed by time! No place in Mobway bids you pause, old Drake. No spot in Mob-way bids you hold your mind a moment in reflection, saying: “He was here!” No square of concrete slab161 says: “Stay, for I was built by men.” Mobway never knew the hand of man, as your streets did. Mobway was laid down by great machines, for one sole purpose — to unimpede and hurry up the passing of the feet.
Where did Mobway come from? What produced it?
It came from the same place where all our mobways come from — from Standard Concentrated Production Units of America, No. 1. This is where all our streets, sidewalks, and lamp-posts (like the one on which Green’s brains are spattered) come from, where all our white-grimy bricks (like those of which your hotel is constructed) come from, where the red facades162 of our standard-unit tobacco stores (like the one across the street) come from, where our motor-cars come from, where our drug-stores and our drug-store windows and displays come from, where our soda fountains (complete, with soda jerkers attached) come from, where our cosmetics, toilet articles, and the fat, rouged lips of our Jewesses come from, where our soda water, slops and syrups163, steamed spaghetti, ice-cream, and pimento sandwiches come from, where our clothes, our hats (neat, standard stamps of grey), our faces (also stamps of grey, not always neat), our language, conversation, sentiments, feelings, and opinions come from. All these things are made for us by Standard Concentrated Production Units of America, No. 1.
So here we are, then, Admiral Drake. You see the street, the sidewalk, the front of your hotel, the constant stream of motor-cars, the drug-store and the soda fountain, the tobacco store, the traffic lights, the cops in uniform, the people streaming in and out of the subway, the rusty, pale-hued jungle of the buildings, old and new, high and low. There is no better place to see it, Drake. For this is Brooklyn — which means ten thousand streets and blocks like this one. Brooklyn, Admiral Drake, is the Standard Concentrated Chaos164 No. 1 of the Whole Universe. That is to say, it has no size, no shape, no heart, no joy, no hope, no aspiration165, no centre, no eyes, no soul, no purpose, no direction, and no anything — just Standard Concentrated Units everywhere — exploding in all directions for an unknown number of square miles like a completely triumphant Standard Concentrated Blot166 upon the Face of the Earth. And here, right in the middle — no, that is wrong, for Standard Concentrated Blots167 don’t have a middle — but, if not in the middle, at least right slap-bang out in the open, upon a minute portion of his magnificent Standard Concentrated Blot, where all the Standard Concentrated Blotters can stare at him, and with the brains completely out of him ——
— Lies Green!
And this is bad — most bad — oh, very bad — and should not be allowed! For, as our young Jewish friend has just indignantly proclaimed, it “shows no consideration for other people”— which means, for other Standard Concentrated Blotters. Green has no right to go falling in this fashion in a public place. He has no right to take unto himself any portion of this Standard Concentrated Blot, however small. He has no business being where he is at all. A Standard Concentrated Blotter is not supposed to be places, but to go places.
You see, dear Admiral, this is not a street to amble143 in, to ride along, to drift through. It is a channel — in the words of the Standard Concentrated Blotter–Press, an “artery”. This means that it is not a place where one drives, but a place where one is driven — not really a street at all, but a kind of tube for a projectile168, a kind of groove169 for millions and millions of projectiles170, all driven past incessantly171, all beetling172 onwards, bearing briefly173 white slugged blurs175 of driven flesh.
As for the sidewalk, this Standard Concentrated Mobway is not a place to walk on, really. (Standard Concentrated Blotters have forgotten how to walk.) It is a place to swarm on, to weave on, to thrust and dodge176 on, to scurry177 past on, to crowd by on. It is not a place to stand on, either. One of the earliest precepts178 in a Concentrated Blotter’s life is: “Move on there! Where th’ hell d’you think you are, anyway — in a cow pasture?” And, most certainly, it is not a place to lie on, to sprawl out on.
But look at Green! Just look at him! No wonder the Jewish youth is angry with him!
Green has wilfully179 and deliberately180 violated every Standard Concentrated Principle of Blotterdom. He has not only gone and dashed his brains out, but he has done it in a public place — upon a piece of Standard Concentrated Mobway. He has messed up the sidewalk, messed up another Standard Concentrated Blotter, stopped traffic, taken people from their business, upset the nerves of his fellow Blotters — and now lies there, all sprawled181 out, in a place where he has no right to be. And, to make his crime unpardonable, C. Green has ——
— Come to Life!
Consider that, old Drake! We can understand some measure of your strangeness, because we heard you swearing in the tavern and saw your sails stand to the west. Can you now do the same for us? Consider strangeness, Drake — and look at Green! For you have heard it said by your own countryman, and in your living generation: “The times have been that, when the brains were out, the man would die.” But now, old Drake, what hath Time wrought182? There is surely here some strangeness in us that you could never have foretold183. For the brains are “out” now — and the man has ——
— Come to Life!
What’s that, Admiral? You do not understand it? Small wonder, though it’s really very simple:
For just ten minutes since, C. Green was a Concentrated Blotter like the rest of us. Ten minutes since, he, too, might hurry in and out of the subway, thrust and scurry on the pavement, go hurtling past with whited blur174 in one of our beetles184 of machinery, a nameless atom, cypher, cinder, swarming with the rest of us, just another “guy” like a hundred million other “guys”. But now, observe him! No longer is he just “another guy”— already he has become a “special guy”— has become “The Guy”. C. Green at last has turned into a —Man!
Four hundred years ago, brave Admiral Drake, if we had seen you lying on your deck, your bronze gone pale and cold, imbrued in your own blood, and hewn to the middle by the Spaniards’ steel, we could have understood that, for there was blood in you. But Green — this Concentrated Blotter of ten minutes since — made in our own image, shaped in our own dust, compacted of the same grey stuff of which our own lives are compacted, and filled, we thought, with the same Standard Concentration of embalming185 fluid that fills our veins186 — oh, Drake, we did not know the fellow had such blood in him! We could not have thought it was so red, so rich, and so abundant!
Poor, shabby, and corrupted187 cypher! Poor, nameless, and exploded atom! Poor little guy! He fills us Concentrated Blotters of the Universe with fear, with shame, with awe103, with pity, and with terror — for we see ourselves in him. If he was a man with blood in him, then so are we! If he, in the midst of his always-driven life, could at last be driven to this final and defiant188 gesture of refusal to remain a Concentrated Blotter, then we, too, might be driven to a point of equal desperation! And there are other methods of defiance189, other ways of ultimate refusal, other means of exercising one’s last-remaining right of manhood — and some of them are no less terrifying to contemplate190 than this! So our fascinated eyes go up and up, past floor after floor of Standard Concentrated brick, and fasten on the open window where he stood — and suddenly we crane our necks along the ridges191 of our collars, look away with constricted192 faces, and taste the acrid193 bitterness of steel upon our lips!
It is too hard, and not to be endured — to know that little Green, speaking our own tongue and stuffed with our own stuffing, had yet concealed194 in him some secret, dark, and frightful195 thing more terrible than anything that we have ever known — that he bore within him some black and hideous196 horror, some depth of madness or of courage, and could stand there— upon the sheer and nauseating197 verge199 of that grey window-ledge200 for five full minutes — and know the thing he was about to do — and tell himself he must now! — that he had to! — that the compulsion of every horror-fascinated eye down in the gulf201 below had now made escape impossible — and then, horror-sick past all regeneration, see, too, before he jumped, his fall, the downward-hurtling plunge, and his own exploded body — feel the bones crack and fly apart, and the brutal obliteration202 of the instant when his brains would shoot out against the lamp-post — and even while his soul drew back from that sheer verge of imagined terror, shame, and unutterable self-loathing, crying: “I cannot do it!”— then jumped!
And we, brave Drake? We try to see it, but we cannot see. We try to fathom203 it, but we cannot plunge. We try to comprehend the hell of hells, the hundred lives of horror, madness, anguish204, and despair that were exhausted205 in five minutes by that shabby creature crouched206 there on the window-ledge. But we cannot understand, or look at it any longer. It is too hard, too hard, and not to be endured. We turn away with nausea198, hollowness, blind fear, and unbelief within us.
One man stares, cranes his neck, wets his lips, and whispers: “Jesus! To do a thing like that takes guts207!”
Another, harshly: “Nah! It don’t take guts! A guy who’d do a thing like that is crazy! He don’t know what he’s doin’ to begin with!”
And others, doubtfully, half-whispering, with eyes focused on the ledge: “But Jesus!”
A taxi-driver, turning away and moving towards his cab, with an attempt at casual indifference that does not ring entirely208 true: “Oh, well! Just another guy, I guess!”
Then one man, turning to his companion with a little puckered smile: “Well, what about it, Al? You still feel like eating?”
And his companion, quietly: “Eating, hell! I feel like two or three stiff shots of rye! Come on, let’s go round to Steve’s!”
They go. The Concentrated Blotters of the World cannot abide209 it. They must somehow blot it out.
So a policeman comes round the corner now with an old tarpaulin210, with which he covers the No–Head. The crowd remains. Then the green wagon211 from the morgue. The Thing, tarpaulin and all, is pushed into it. It drives away. A policeman with thick-soled boots scuffs212 and pushes skull-pieces and brain-fragments into the gutter213. Someone comes with sawdust, strews214 it. Someone from the drugstore with formaldehyde. Later, someone with a hose and water. From the subway come an adolescent boy and girl with the hard, tough faces of the city; they walk past it, deliberately and arrogantly215 step among it, look at the lamp-post, then at each other, and laugh!
All’s over now, all’s gone, the crowd’s departed. Something else remains. It cannot be forgotten. There’s a sick, humid smell upon the air, what was light and clear and crystal has gone out of day, and something thick and glutinous216 — half taste, half smell, and all impalpable — remains upon your tongue.
There would have been a time and place for such a thing, brave Admiral Drake, if he, our fellow Green, had only fallen as a hollow man and landed dryly, or if he had opened to disperse217 a grey embalming fluid in the gutter. It would have been all right if he had just been blown away like an old paper, or if he had been swept aside like remnants of familiar litter, and then subsumed into the Standard Concentrated stuff from which he came. But C. Green would not have it so. He exploded to drench136 our common substance of viscous218 grey with the bright indecency of blood, to resume himself from number, to become before our eyes a Man, and to identify a single spot of all our general Nothingness with the unique passion, the awful terror, and the dignity of Death.
So, Admiral Drake —“an unidentified man fell ‘or jumped yesterday at noon” from a window of your own hotel. That was the news. Now you’ve had the story.
We are “the hollow men, the hollow men”? Brave Admiral, do not be too sure.
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1
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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2
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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3
dilating
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| v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的现在分词 ) | |
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4
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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5
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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whack
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| v.敲击，重打，瓜分；n.重击，重打，尝试，一份 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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8
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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9
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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10
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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12
obituaries
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| 讣告，讣闻( obituary的名词复数 ) | |
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13
coastal
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| adj.海岸的，沿海的，沿岸的 | |
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14
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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15
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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16
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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17
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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18
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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19
lengthens
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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20
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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21
bleaches
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| 使（颜色）变淡，变白，漂白( bleach的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22
withers
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| 马肩隆 | |
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23
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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24
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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25
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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26
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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27
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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28
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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29
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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30
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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31
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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32
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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33
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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34
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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37
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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38
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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brawls
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| 吵架，打架( brawl的名词复数 ) | |
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40
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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41
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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42
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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43
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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44
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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45
warehouses
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| 仓库，货栈( warehouse的名词复数 ) | |
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46
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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47
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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48
residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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49
bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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50
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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51
amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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52
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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53
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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54
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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55
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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56
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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57
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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58
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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59
gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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60
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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61
killings
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| 谋杀( killing的名词复数 )； 突然发大财，暴发 | |
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62
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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63
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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64
mitts
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| n.露指手套，棒球手套，拳击手套( mitt的名词复数 ) | |
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gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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66
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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67
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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68
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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69
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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70
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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71
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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72
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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73
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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74
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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75
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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76
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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77
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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78
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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79
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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80
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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81
burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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82
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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83
hued
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| 有某种色调的 | |
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84
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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85
bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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86
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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87
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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88
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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89
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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90
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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91
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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92
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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94
lechery
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| n.好色；淫荡 | |
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95
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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96
slants
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| （使）倾斜，歪斜( slant的第三人称单数 )； 有倾向性地编写或报道 | |
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97
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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98
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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99
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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100
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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101
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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102
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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103
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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104
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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105
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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106
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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107
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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108
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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109
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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110
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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111
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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112
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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113
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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114
cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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115
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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116
cosmetics
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| n.化妆品 | |
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117
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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118
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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119
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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120
filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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121
rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
sodas
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| n.苏打( soda的名词复数 )；碱；苏打水；汽水 | |
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123
passersby
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| n. 过路人(行人,经过者) | |
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124
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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125
hydraulically
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| 透明质地 | |
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126
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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127
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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128
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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129
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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130
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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131
proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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132
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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133
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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134
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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135
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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136
drench
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| v.使淋透，使湿透 | |
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137
borough
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| n.享有自治权的市镇；(英)自治市镇 | |
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138
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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139
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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140
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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141
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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142
scrambles
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| n.抢夺( scramble的名词复数 )v.快速爬行( scramble的第三人称单数 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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143
amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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144
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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145
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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146
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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147
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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148
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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149
annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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150
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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151
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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152
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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153
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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154
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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155
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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156
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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157
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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158
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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159
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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160
dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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161
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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162
facades
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| n.（房屋的）正面( facade的名词复数 )；假象，外观 | |
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163
syrups
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| n.糖浆，糖汁( syrup的名词复数 )；糖浆类药品 | |
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164
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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165
aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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166
blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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167
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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168
projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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169
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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170
projectiles
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| n.抛射体( projectile的名词复数 )；（炮弹、子弹等）射弹，（火箭等）自动推进的武器 | |
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171
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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172
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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173
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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174
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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175
blurs
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| n.模糊( blur的名词复数 )；模糊之物；（移动的）模糊形状；模糊的记忆v.（使）变模糊( blur的第三人称单数 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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176
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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177
scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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178
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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179
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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180
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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181
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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182
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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183
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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185
embalming
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| v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的现在分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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186
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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187
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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188
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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190
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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191
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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192
constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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193
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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194
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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195
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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196
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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197
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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198
nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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199
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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200
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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201
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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202
obliteration
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| n.涂去，删除；管腔闭合 | |
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203
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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204
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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205
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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206
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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208
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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209
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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210
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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211
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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212
scuffs
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| v.使磨损( scuff的第三人称单数 )；拖着脚走 | |
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213
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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214
strews
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| v.撒在…上( strew的第三人称单数 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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215
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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216
glutinous
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| adj.粘的，胶状的 | |
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217
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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218
viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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