To live alone as George was living, a man should have the confidence of God, the tranquil5 faith of a monastic saint, the stern impregnability of Gibraltar. Lacking these, he finds that there are times when anything, everything, all and nothing, the most trivial incidents, the most casual words, can in an instant strip him of his armour6, palsy his hand, constrict7 his heart with frozen horror, and fill his bowels8 with the grey substance of shuddering9 impotence and desolation. Sometimes it would be a sly remark dropped by some all-knowing literary soothsayer in the columns of one of the more leftish reviews, such as:
“Whatever has become of our autobiographical and volcanic10 friend, George Webber? Remember him? Remember the splash he made with that so-called ‘novel’ of his a few years back? Some of our esteemed11 colleagues thought they detected signs of promise there. We ourselves should have welcomed another book from him, just to prove that the first was not an accident. But tempus fugit, and where is Webber? Calling Mr. Webber! No answer? Well, a pity, perhaps; but then, who can count the number of one-book authors? They shoot their bolt, and after that they go into the silence and no more is heard from them. Some of us who were more than a little doubtful about that book of Webber’s, but whose voices were drowned out by the Oh’s and Ah’s of those who rused headlong to proclaim a new star rising in the literary firmament12, could now come forward, if we weren’t too kindly13 disposed towards our more emotional brethren of the critical fraternity, and modestly say: ‘We told you so!’”
Sometimes it would be nothing but a shadow passing on the sun, sometimes nothing but the gelid light of March falling on the limitless, naked, sprawling14 ugliness and squalid decencies of Brooklyn streets. Whatever it was, at such a time all joy and singing would go instantly out of day, Webber’s heart would drop out of him like a leaden plummet16, hope, confidence, and conviction would seem lost for ever to him, and all the high and shining truth that he had ever found and lived and known would now turn false to mock him. Then he would feel like one who walked among the dead, and it would be as if the only things that were not false on earth were the creatures of the death-inlife who moved for ever in the changeless lights and weathers of red, waning17, weary March and Sunday afternoon.
These hideous18 doubts, despairs, and dark confusions of the soul would come and go, and George knew them as every lonely man must know them. For he was united to no image save that image which he himself created. He was bolstered19 by no knowledge save that which he gathered for himself out of his own life. He saw life with no other vision save the vision of his own eyes and brain and senses. He was sustained and cheered and aided by no party, was given comfort by no creed20, and had no faith in him except his own.
That faith, though it was made up of many articles, was at bottom a faith in himself, a faith that if he could only succeed in capturing a fragment of the truth about the life he knew, and make it known and felt by others, it would be a more glorious accomplishment21 than anything else he could imagine. And through it all, animating22 this faith and sustaining it with a promise of rewards to come, was a belief — be it now confessed — that if he could only do this, the world would thank him for it, and would crown him with the laurel of its fame.
The desire for fame is tooted in the hearts of men. It is one of the most powerful of all human desires, and perhaps for that very reason, and because it is so deep and secret, it is the desire that men are most unwilling23 to admit, particularly those who feel most sharply its keen and piercing spur.
The politician, for example, would never have us think that it is love of office, the desire for the notorious elevation24 of public place, that drives him on. No, the thing that governs him is his pure devotion to the common weal, his selfless and high-minded statesmanship, his love of his fellow-man, and his burning idealism to turn out the rascal25 who usurps26 the office and betrays the public trust which he himself, as he assures us, would so gloriously and devotedly28 maintain.
So, too, the soldier. It is never love of glory that inspires him to his profession. It is never love of battle, love of war, love of all the resounding29 titles and the proud emoluments30 of the heroic conqueror31. Oh, no. It is devotion to duty that makes him a soldier. There is no personal motive32 in it. He is inspired simply by the selfless ardour of his patriotic33 abnegation. He regrets that he has but one life to give for his country.
So it goes through every walk of life. The lawyer assures us that he is the defender34 of the weak, the guardian35 of the oppressed, the champion of the rights of defrauded36 widows and beleaguered37 orphans38, the upholder of justice, the unrelenting enemy, at no matter what cost to himself, of all forms of chicanery39, fraud, theft, violence, and crime. Even the business man will not admit a selfish motive in his money-getting. On the contrary, he is the developer of the nation’s resources. He is the benevolent40 employer of thousands of working men who would be lost and on the dole41 without the organising genius of his great intelligence. He is the defender of the American ideal of rugged42 individualism, the shining exemplar to youth of what a poor country boy may achieve in this nation through a devotion to the national virtues43 of thrift44, industry, obedience45 to duty, and business integrity. He is, he assures us, the backbone46 of the country, the man who makes the wheels go round, the leading citizen, Public Friend No. 1.
All these people lie, of course. They know they lie, and everyone who hears them also knows they lie. The lie, however, has become a part of the convention of American life. People listen to it patiently, and if they smile at it, the smile is weary, touched with resignation and the indifferent dismissals of fatigue47.
Curiously48 enough, the lie has also invaded the world of creation — the one place where it has no right at all to exist. There was a time when the poet, the painter, the musician, the artist of whatever sort, was not ashamed to confess that the desire for fame was one of the driving forces of his life and labour. But what a transformation49 from that time to this! Nowadays one will travel far and come back fruitless if he hopes to find an artist who will admit that he is devoted27 to anything except the service of some ideal — political, social, economic, religious, or aesthetic50 — which is outside himself, and to which his own humble51 fame-forsaking person is reverently52 and selflessly consigned53.
Striplings of twenty assure us that the desire for fame is naively55 childish, the fruit of an outworn cult56 of “romantic individualism”. From all the falseness and self-deception of this cult these young gentlemen tell us they are free — without troubling to explain, however, by what process of miraculous57 purgation they achieved their freedom. It took Goethe, the strongest soul of modern times, some three and eighty years to free his mighty58 spirit of this last infirmity. Milton, old and blind, forsaken59, and past fifty, is said to have won free of it by the end of Cromwell’s revolution, in whose employment he destroyed his sight. And yet, can we be sure that even he was ever wholly clear, for what is the tremendous edifice60 of Paradise Lost except a man’s final and triumphant61 suit against eternity62?
Poor, blind Milton!
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of Noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious63 dayes; But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th’abhorred shears64, And slits65 the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phoebus repli’d, and touch’d my trembling ears; Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th’world, nor in broad rumour66 lies, But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav’n expect thy meed.
Deluded67 man! Poor vassal68 of corrupted69 time! How fair a thing for us to know that we are not such men as he and Goethe were! We live in more stirring times, and our very striplings are secure in their collective selflessness. We have freed ourselves of all degrading vanities, choked off the ravening70 desire for individual immortality71, and now, having risen out of the ashes of our father’s earth into the untainted ethers of collective consecration73, we are clear at last of all that vexed74, corrupted earth — clear of the sweat and blood and sorrow, clear of the grief and joy, clear of the hope and fear and human agony of which our father’s flesh and that of every other man alive before us was ever wrought75.
And yet, having achieved this glorious emancipation76; having laid all petty dreams aside; having learned to think of life, not in terms of ourselves, but in terms of the whole mass; having learned to think of life, not as it is today, but as it is going to be five hundred years from now, when all the revolutions have been made, and all the blood has been shed, and all the hundreds of millions of vain and selfish little lives, each concerned with its own individual and romantic breath, have been ruthlessly wiped out in order to usher77 in the collective glory that such will be-having become marvellously and, as it were, overnight such paragons78 of collective selflessness and such scorners of the vanity of personal fame, is it not strange that though we have new phrases, yet their meaning is still the same? Is it not strange that, feeling only an amused and pitying contempt for those who are still naive54 enough to long for glory, we should yet lacerate our souls, poison our minds and hearts, and crucify our spirits with bitter and rancorous hatred against those who are fortunate enough to achieve fame?
Or do we err79? Are we mistaken in assuming that these words we read so often are really words of hatred, malice80, envy, ridicule81, and jeering82 mockery? Are we mistaken in assuming that the whole vocabulary of abuse which is exhausted83 every week in the journals of our red and pink-complexioned comrades — the sneers84 against a man’s talent, the bitter denials that his work has any substance, sincerity85, truth, or reality whatever — is really what it seems to be? No doubt we are mistaken. It would be more charitable to believe that these pure spirits of the present day are what they say they are — collective, selfless, consecrated86 — and that the words they use do not mean what they seem to mean, and do not betray the romantic and deluded passions that seem to animate87 them, but are really words used coldly, without passion, for the purposes of collective propaganda — in operations completely surgical88, whereby the language of the present day, with all its overtones of superstition89, prejudice, and false knowledge, is employed clinically, scientifically, simply to further the Idea of the Future State!
No more, no more! Of what avail to crush these vermin beneath our heavy boot? The locusts90 have no king, and lice will multiply for ever. The poet must be born, and live, and sweat, and suffer, and change, and grow, yet somehow maintain the changeless selfhood of his soul’s integrity among all the crawling fashions of this world of lice. The poet lives, and dies, and is immortal72; but the eternal trifler of all complexions91 never dies. The eternal trifler comes and goes, sucks blood of living men, is filled and emptied with the surfeit92 of each changing fashion. He gorges93 and disgorges, and is never fed. There is no nurture94 in him, and he draws no nurture from the food he feeds on. There is no heart, no soul, no blood, no living faith in him: the eternal trifler simply swallows and remains95.
And we? Made of our father’s earth, blood of his blood, bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh — born like our father here to live and strive, here to win through or be defeated — here, like all the other men who went before us, not too nice or dainty for the uses of this earth — here to live, to suffer, and to die-O brothers, like our fathers in their time, we are burning, burning, burning in the night.
Go, seeker, if you will, throughout the land and you will find us burning in the night.
There where the hackles of the Rocky Mountains blaze in the blank and naked radiance of the moon, go make your resting stool upon the highest peak. Can you not see us now? The continental96 wall juts97 sheer and flat, its huge black shadow on the plain, and the plain sweeps out against the East, two thousand miles away. The great snake that you see there is the Mississippi River.
Behold98 the gem-strung towns and cities of the good, green East, flung like star-dust through the field of night. That spreading constellation99 to the north is called Chicago, and that giant wink100 that blazes in the moon is the pendant lake that it is built upon. Beyond, close-set and dense101 as a clenched102 fist, are all the jewelled cities of the eastern seaboard. There’s Boston, ringed with the bracelet103 of its shining little towns, and all the lights that sparkle on the rocky indentations of New England. Here, southward and a little to the west, and yet still coasted to the sea, is our intensest ray, the splintered firmament of the towered island of Manhattan. Round about her, sown thick as grain, is the glitter of a hundred towns and cities. The long chain of lights there is the necklace of Long Island and the Jersey104 shore. Southward and inland, by a foot or two, behold the duller glare of Philadelphia. Southward farther still, the twin constellations105 — Baltimore and Washington. Westward106, but still within the borders of the good, green East, that night-time glow and smoulder of hell-fire is Pittsburgh. Here, St. Louis, hot and humid in the cornfield belly107 of the land, and bedded on the mid-length coil and fringes of the snake. There at the snake’s mouth, southward six hundred miles or so, you see the jewelled crescent of old New Orleans. Here, west and south again, you see the gemmy glitter of the cities on the Texas border.
Turn now, seeker, on your resting stool atop the Rocky Mountains, and look another thousand miles or so across moon-blazing fiend-worlds of the Painted Desert and beyond Sierras’ ridge108. That magic congeries of lights there to the west, ringed like a studded belt round the magic setting of its lovely harbour, is the fabled109 town of San Francisco. Below it, Los Angeles and all the cities of the California shore. A thousand miles to north and west, the sparkling towns of Oregon and Washington.
Observe the whole of it, survey it as you might survey a field. Make it your garden, seeker, or your backyard patch. Be at ease in it. It’s your oyster110 — yours to open if you will. Don’t be frightened, it’s not so big now, when your footstool is the Rocky Mountains. Reach out and dip a hatful of cold water from Lake Michigan. Drink it — we’ve tried it — you’ll not find it bad. Take your shoes off and work your toes down in the river oozes111 of the Mississippi bottom — it’s very refreshing112 on a hot night in the summer-time. Help yourself to a bunch of Concord113 grapes up there in northern New York State — they’re getting good now. Or raid that water-melon patch down there in Georgia. Or, if you like, you can try the Rockyfords here at your elbow, in Colorado. Just make yourself at home, refresh yourself, get the feel of things, adjust your sights, and get the scale. It’s your pasture now, and it’s not so big — only three thousand miles from east to west, only two thousand miles from north to south — but all between, where ten thousand points of light prick114 out the cities, towns, and villages, there, seeker, you will find us burning in the night.
Here, as you pass through the brutal115 sprawl15, the twenty miles of rails and rickets116, of the South Chicago slums — here, in an unpainted shack117, is a Negro boy, and, seeker, he is burning in the night. Behind him is a memory of the cotton-fields, the flat and mournful pineland barrens of the lost and buried South, and at the fringes of the pine another nigger shack, with mammy and eleven little niggers. Farther still behind, the slave-driver’s whip, the slave ship, and, far off, the jungle dirge118 of Africa. And before him, what? A roped-in ring, a blaze of lights, across from him a white champion; the bell, the opening, and all round the vast sea-roaring of the crowd. Then the lightning feint and stroke, the black panther’s paw — the hot, rotating presses, and the rivers of sheeted print! 0 seeker, where is the slave ship now?
Or there, in the clay-baked piedmont of the South, that lean and tan-faced boy who sprawls119 there in the creaking chair among admiring cronies before the open doorways120 of the fire department, and tells them how he pitched the team to shut-out victory today. What visions burn, what dreams possess him, seeker of the night? The packed stands of the stadium, the bleachers sweltering with their unshaded hordes121, the faultless velvet122 of the diamond, unlike the clay-balked outfields down in Georgia. The mounting roar of eighty thousand voices and Gehrig coming up to bat, the boy himself upon the pitching mound123, the lean face steady as a hound’s; then the nod, the signal, and the wind-up, the rawhide124 arm that snaps and crackles like a whip, the small white bullet of the blazing ball, its loud report in the oiled pocket of the catcher’s mitt125, the umpire’s thumb jerked upwards126, the clean strike.
Or there again, in the East–Side Ghetto127 of Manhattan, two blocks away from the East River, a block away from the gas-house district and its thuggery, there in the swarming128 tenement129, shut in its sweltering cell, breathing the sun-baked air through opened window at the fire-escape, celled there away into a little semblance130 of privacy and solitude131 from all the brawling132 and vociferous133 life and argument of his family and the seething134 hive round him, the Jew boy sits and pores upon his book. In shirt-sleeves, bent135 above his table to meet the hard glare of a naked bulb, he sits with gaunt, starved face converging136 to his huge beaked137 nose, the weak eyes squinting138 painfully through his thick-lens glasses, his greasy139 hair roached back in oily scrolls140 above the slanting141 cage of his painful and constricted142 brow. And for what? For what this agony of concentration? For what this hell of effort? For what this intense withdrawal143 from the poverty and squalor of dirty brick and rusty144 fire-escapes, from the raucous145 cries and violence and never-ending noise? For what? Because, brother, he is burning in the night. He sees the class, the lecture room, the shining apparatus146 of gigantic laboratories, the open field of scholarship and pure research, certain knowledge, and the world distinction of an Einstein name.
So, then, to every man his chance — to every man, regardless of his birth, his shining, golden opportunity — to every man the right to live, to work to be himself, and to become whatever thing his manhood and his vision can combine to make him — this seeker, is the promise of America.
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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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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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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constrict
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| v.压缩，收缩，阻塞 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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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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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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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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plummet
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| vi.(价格、水平等)骤然下跌；n.铅坠；重压物 | |
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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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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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bolstered
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| v.支持( bolster的过去式和过去分词 )；支撑；给予必要的支持；援助 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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usurps
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的第三人称单数 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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emoluments
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| n.报酬，薪水( emolument的名词复数 ) | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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defrauded
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beleaguered
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| adj.受到围困[围攻]的；包围的v.围攻( beleaguer的过去式和过去分词)；困扰；骚扰 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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chicanery
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| n.欺诈，欺骗 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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54
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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55
naively
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| adv. 天真地 | |
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56
cult
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| n.异教，邪教；时尚，狂热的崇拜 | |
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57
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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58
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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59
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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60
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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61
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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62
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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63
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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64
shears
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| n.大剪刀 | |
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65
slits
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| n.狭长的口子，裂缝( slit的名词复数 )v.切开，撕开( slit的第三人称单数 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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66
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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67
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
vassal
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| n.附庸的；属下；adj.奴仆的 | |
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69
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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70
ravening
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| a.贪婪而饥饿的 | |
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71
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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72
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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73
consecration
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| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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74
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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75
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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76
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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77
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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78
paragons
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| n.模范( paragon的名词复数 )；典型；十全十美的人；完美无缺的人 | |
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79
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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80
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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81
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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82
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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83
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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84
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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85
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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86
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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87
animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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88
surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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89
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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90
locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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91
complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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92
surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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93
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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94
nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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95
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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96
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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97
juts
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| v.（使）突出( jut的第三人称单数 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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98
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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99
constellation
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| n.星座n.灿烂的一群 | |
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100
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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101
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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102
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
bracelet
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| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
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104
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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105
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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106
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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107
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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108
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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109
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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110
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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111
oozes
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的第三人称单数 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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112
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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113
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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114
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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115
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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116
rickets
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| n.软骨病，佝偻病，驼背 | |
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117
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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118
dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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119
sprawls
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| n.（城市）杂乱无序拓展的地区( sprawl的名词复数 )；随意扩展；蔓延物v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的第三人称单数 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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120
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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121
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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122
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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123
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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124
rawhide
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| n.生牛皮 | |
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125
mitt
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| n.棒球手套，拳击手套，无指手套；vt.铐住，握手 | |
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126
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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127
ghetto
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| n.少数民族聚居区，贫民区 | |
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128
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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129
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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130
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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131
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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132
brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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133
vociferous
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| adj.喧哗的，大叫大嚷的 | |
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134
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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135
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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136
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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137
beaked
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| adj.有喙的，鸟嘴状的 | |
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138
squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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139
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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140
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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141
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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142
constricted
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| adj.抑制的，约束的 | |
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143
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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144
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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145
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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146
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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