AFTER NONES
In which there is a visit to the scriptorium, and a meeting with many scholars, copyists, and rubricators, as well as an old blind man who is expecting the Antichrist.
As we climbed up I saw my master observing the windows that gave light to the stairway. I was probably becoming as clever as he, because I immediately noticed that their position would make it difficult for a person to reach them. On the other hand, the windows of the refectory (the only ones on the ground floor that overlooked the cliff face) did not seem easily reached, either, since below them there was no furniture of any kind.
When we reached the top of the stairs, we went through the east tower into the scriptorium, and there I could not suppress a cry of wonder. This floor was not divided in two like the one below, and therefore it appeared to my eyes in all its spacious1 immensity. The ceilings, curved and not too high (lower than in a church, but still higher than in any chapter house I ever saw), supported by sturdy pillars, enclosed a space suffused2 with the most beautiful light, because three enormous windows opened on each of the longer sides, whereas a smaller window pierced each of the five external sides of each tower; eight high, narrow windows, finally, allowed light to enter from the octagonal central well.
The abundance of windows meant that the great room was cheered by a constant diffused3 light, even on a winter afternoon. The panes4 were not colored like church windows, and the lead-framed squares of clear glass allowed the light to enter in the purest possible fashion, not modulated7 by human art, and thus to serve its purpose, which was to illuminate8 the work of read?ing and writing. I have seen at other times and in other places many scriptoria, but none where there shone so luminously9, in the outpouring, of physical light which made the room glow, the spiritual principle that light incarnates10, radiance, source of all beauty and learning, inseparable attribute of that proportion the room embodied11. For three things concur12 in creating beauty: first of all integrity or perfection, and for this reason we consider ugly all incomplete things; then proper proportion or consonance; and finally clarity and light, and in fact we call beautiful those things of definite color. And since the sight of the beautiful implies peace, and since our appetite is calmed similarly by peacefulness, by the good, and by the beautiful, I felt myself filled with a great consolation13 and I thought how pleasant it must be to work in that place.
As it appeared to my eyes, at that afternoon hour, it seemed to me a joyous14 workshop of learning. I saw later at St. Gall15 a scriptorium of similar proportions, also separated from the library (in other convents the monks17 worked in the same place where the books were kept), but not so beautifully arranged as this one. Antiquarians, librarians, rubricators, and scholars were seated, each at his own desk, and there was a desk under each of the windows. And since there were forty windows (a number truly perfect, derived18 from the decupling of the quadragon, as if the Ten Command?ments had been multiplied by the four cardinal19 virtues), forty monks could work at the same time, though at that moment there were perhaps thirty. Severinus explained to us that monks working in the scriptorium were exempted21 from the offices of terce, sext, and nones so they would not have to leave their work during the hours of daylight, and they stopped their activity only at sunset, for vespers.
The brightest places were reserved for the antiquarians, the most expert illuminators, the rubricators, and the copyists. Each desk had everything required for illumi?nating and copying: inkhorns, fine quills22 which some monks were sharpening with a thin knife, pumice stone for smoothing the parchment, rulers for drawing the lines that the writing would follow. Next to each scribe, or at the top of the sloping desk, there was a lectern, on which the codex to be copied was placed, the page covered by a sheet with a cut-out window which framed the line being copied at that moment. And some had inks of gold and various colors. Other monks were simply reading books, and they wrote down their anno?tations in their personal notebooks or on tablets.
I did not have time, however, to observe their work, because the librarian came to us. We already knew he was Malachi of Hildesheim. His face was trying to assume an expression of welcome, but I could not help shuddering23 at the sight of such a singular countenance24. He was tall and extremely thin, with large and awkward limbs. As he took his great strides, cloaked in the black habit of the order, there was something upsetting about his appearance. The hood25, which was still raised since he had come in from outside, cast a shadow on the pallor of his face and gave a certain suffering quality to his large melancholy26 eyes. In his physiognomy there were what seemed traces of many passions which his will had disciplined but which seemed to have frozen those features they had now ceased to animate27. Sadness and severity predominated in the lines of his face, and his eyes were so intense that with one glance they could penetrate28 the heart of the person speaking to him, and read the secret thoughts, so it was difficult to tolerate their inquiry29 and one was not tempted30 to meet them a second time.
The librarian introduced us to many of the monks who were working at that moment. Of each, Malachi also told us what task he was performing, and I ad?mired31 the deep devotion of all to knowledge and to the study of the divine word. Thus I met Venantius of Salvemec, translator from the Greek and the Arabic, devoted33 to that Aristotle who surely was the wisest of all men. Benno of Uppsala, a young Scandinavian monk16 who was studying rhetoric34. Aymaro of Alessandria, who had been copying works on loan to the library for a few months only, and then a group of illuminators from various countries, Patrick of Clonmacnois, Rabano of Toledo, Magnus of Iona, Waldo of Hereford.
The list could surely go on, and there is nothing more wonderful than a list, instrument of wondrous35 hypotyposis. But I must come to the subject of our discussion, from which emerged many useful indica?tions as to the nature of the subtle uneasiness among the monks, and some concerns, not expressed, that still weighed on all our conversations.
My master began speaking with Malachi, praising the beauty and the industry of the scriptorium and asking him for information about the procedure for the work done there, because, he said very acutely, he had heard this library spoken of everywhere and would like to examine many of the books. Malachi explained to him what the abbot had already said: the monk asked the librarian for the work he wished to consult and the librarian then went to fetch it from the library above, if the request was justified37 and devout38. William asked how he could find out the names of the books kept in the cases upstairs, and Malachi showed him, fixed39 by a little gold chain to his own desk, a voluminous codex covered with very thickly written lists.
William slipped his hands inside his habit, at the point where it billowed over his chest to make a kind of sack, and he drew from it an object that I had already seen in his hands, and on his face, in the course of our journey. It was a forked pin,. so constructed that it could stay on a man’s nose (or at least on his, so prominent and aquiline) as a rider remains40 astride his horse or as a bird clings to its perch41. And, one on either side of the fork, before the eyes, there were two ovals of metal, which held two almonds of glass, thick as the bottom of a tumbler. William preferred to read with these before his eyes, and he said they made his vision better than what nature had endowed him with or than his advanced age, especially as the daylight failed, would permit. They did not serve him to see from a distance, for then his eyes were, on the contrary, quite sharp, but to see close up. With these lenses he could read manuscripts penned in very faint letters, which even I had some trouble deciphering. He explained to me that, when a man had passed the middle point of his life, even if his sight had always been excellent, the eye hardened and the pupil became recalcitrant42, so that many learned men had virtually died, as far as reading and writing were concerned, after their fiftieth summer. A grave misfortune for men who could have given the best fruits of their intellect for many more years. So the Lord was to be praised since someone had devised and constructed this instrument. And he told me this in support of the ideas of his Roger Bacon, who had said that the aim of learning was also to prolong human life.
The other monks looked at William with great curiosi?ty but did not dare ask him questions. And I noticed that, even in a place so zealously43 and proudly dedicated44 to reading and writing, that wondrous instrument had not yet arrived. I felt proud to be at the side of a man who had something with which to dumbfound other men famous in the world for their wisdom.
With those objects on his eyes William bent45 over the lists inscribed46 in the codex. I looked, too, and we found titles of books we had never before heard of, and others most famous, that the library possessed47.
“De pentagono Salomonis, Ars loquendi et intellige?di in lingua hebraica, De rebus48 metallicis by Roger of Hereford, Algebra49 by Al-Kuwarizmi, translated into Latin by Robertus Anglicus, the Punica of Silius Italicus, the Gesta francorum, De laudibus sanctae crucis by Rabanus Maurus, and Flavii Claudii Giordani de aetate mundi et hominis reservatis singulis litteris per singulos libros ab A usque ad Z,” my master read. “Splendid works. But in what order are they listed?” He quoted from a text I did not know but which was certainly familiar to Malachi: “ ‘The librarian must have a list of all books, carefully ordered by subjects and authors, and they must be classified on the shelves with numerical indications.’ How do you know the colloca?tion of each book?”
Malachi showed him some annotations50 beside each title. I read: “iii, IV gradus, V in prima graecorum”; “ii, V gradus, VII in tertia anglorum,” and so on. I under?stood that the first number indicated the position of the book on the shelf or gradus, which was in turn indicated by the second number, while the case was indicated by the third number; and I understood also that the other phrases designated a room or a corridor of the library, and I made bold to ask further informa?tion about these last distinctions. Malachi looked at me sternly: “Perhaps you do not know, or have forgotten, that only the librarian is allowed access to the library. It is therefore right and sufficient that only the librarian know how to decipher these things.”
“But in what order are the books recorded in this list?” William asked. “Not by subject, it seems to me.” He did not suggest an order by author, following the same sequence as the letters of the alphabet, for this is a system I have seen adopted only in recent years, and at that time it was rarely used.
“The library dates back to the earliest times,” Malachi said, “and the books are registered in order of their acquisition, donation, or entrance within our walls.”
“They are difficult to find, then,” William observed.
“It is enough for the librarian to know them by heart and know when each book came here. As for the other monks, they can rely on his memory.” He spoke36 as if discussing someone other than himself, and I realized he was speaking of the office that at that moment he unworthily held, but which had been held by a hun?dred others, now deceased, who had handed down their knowledge from one to the other.
“I understand,” William said. “If I were then to seek something, not knowing what, on the pentagon of Solomon, you would be able to tell me that there exists the book whose title I have just read, and you could identify its location on the floor above.”
“If you really had to learn something about the pentagon of Solomon,” Malachi said. “But before giv?ing you that book, I would prefer to ask the abbot’s advice.”
“I have been told that one of your best illuminators died recently,” William said then. “The abbot has spok?en to me a great deal of his art. Could I see the codices he was illuminating51?”
“Because of his youth, Adelmo of Otranto,” Malachi said, looking at William suspiciously, “worked only on marginalia. He had a very lively imagination and from known things he was able to compose unknown and surprising things, as one might join a human body to an equine neck. His books are over there. Nobody has yet touched his desk.”
We approached what had been Adelmo’s working place, where the pages of a richly illuminated52 psalter still lay. They were folios of the finest vellum—that queen among parchments—and the last was still fixed to the desk. Just scraped with pumice stone and softened53 with chalk, it had been smoothed with the plane, and, from the tiny holes made on the sides with a fine stylus, all the lines that were to have guided the artist’s hand had been traced. The first half had’ already been cov?ered with writing, and the monk had begun to sketch54 the illustrations in the margins55. The other pages, on the contrary, were already finished, and as we looked at them, neither I nor William could suppress a cry of wonder. This was a psalter in whose margins was delin?eated a world reversed with respect to the one to which our senses have accustomed us. As if at the border of a discourse56 that is by definition the discourse of truth, there proceeded, closely linked to it, through wondrous allusions57 in aenigmate, a discourse of falsehood on a topsy-turvy universe, in which dogs flee before the hare, and deer hunt the lion. Little bird-feet heads,, animals with human hands on their back, hirsute58 pates59 from which feet sprout60, zebra-striped dragons, quadru?peds with serpentine61 necks twisted in a thousand inex?tricable knots, monkeys with stags’ horns, sirens in the form of fowl62 with membranous63 wins, armless men with other human bodies emerging from their backs like humps, and figures with tooth-filled mouths on the belly64, humans with horses’ heads, and horses with hu?man legs, fish with birds’ wings and birds with fishtails, monsters with single bodies and double heads or single heads and double bodies, cows with cocks’ tails and butterfly wings, women with heads scaly65 as a fish’s back, two-headed chimeras66 interlaced with dragonflies with lizard67 snouts, centaurs68, dragons, elephants, manticores stretched out on tree branches, gryphons whose tails turned into an archer69 in battle array, diabolical70 crea?tures with endless necks, sequences of anthropomor?phic animals and zoomorphic dwarfs71 joined, sometimes on the same page, with scenes of rustic72 life in which you saw, depicted73 with such impressive vivacity74 that the figures seemed alive, all the life of the fields, plowmen, fruit gatherers, harvesters, spinning-women, sowers along?side foxes, and martens armed with crossbows who were scaling the walls of a towered city defended by monkeys. Here an initial letter, bent into an L, in the lower part generated a dragon; there a great V, which began the word “verba,” produced as a natural shoot from its trunk a serpent with a thousand coils, which in turn begot76 other serpents as leaves and clusters.
Next to the psalter there was, apparently77 finished only a short time before, an exquisite78 book of hours, so incredibly small that it would fit into the palm of the hand. The writing was tiny; the marginal illuminations, barely visible at first sight, demanded that the eye examine them closely to reveal all their beauty (and you asked yourself with what superhuman instrument the artist had drawn79 them to achieve such vivid effects in a space so reduced). The entire margins of the book were invaded by minuscule80 forms that generated one another, as if by natural expansion, from the terminal scrolls81 of the splendidly drawn letters: sea sirens, stags in flight, chimeras, armless human torsos that emerged like slugs from the very body of the verses. At one point, as if to continue the triple “Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus” repeat?ed on three different lines, you saw three ferocious82 figures with human heads, two of which were bent, one downward and one upward, to join in a kiss you would not have hesitated to call immodest if you were not persuaded that a profound, even if not evident, spiritu?al meaning must surely have justified that illustration at that point.
As I followed those pages I was torn between silent admiration83 and laughter, because the illustrations natu?rally inspired merriment, though they were commenting on holy pages. And Brother William examined them smiling and remarked, “Babewyn: so they are called in my islands.”
“Babouins: that is what they call them in Gaul,” Malachi said. “Adelmo learned his art in your country, although he studied also in France. Baboons84, that is to say: monkeys from Africa. Figures of an inverted85 world, were houses stand on the tip of a steeple and the earth is above the sky.”
I recalled some verses I had heard in the vernacular86 of my country, and I could not refrain from repeating them:
Aller wunder si geswigen,
das erde himel hat überstigen,
daz sult ir vür ein wunder wigen
And Malachi continued, quoting from the same text:
Erd ob un himel unter,
das sult ir han besunder
vür aller wonder ein rounder.
“Good for you, Adso,” the librarian continued. “In fact, these images tell of that country where you arrive mounted on a blue goose, where hawks87 are found that catch fish in a stream, bears that pursue falcons88 in the sky, lobsters89 that fly with the doves, and three giants are caught in a trap and bitten by a cock.”
And a pale smile brightened his lips. Then the other monks, who had followed the conversation a bit shyly, laughed heartily90, as if they had been awaiting the librarian’s consent. He frowned as the others continued laughing, praising the skill of poor Adelmo and pointing out to one another the more fantastic figures. And it was while all were still laughing that we heard, at our backs, a solemn and stern voice.
“Verba vana aut risui apta non loqui.”
We turned. The speaker was a monk bent under the weight of his years, an old man white as snow, not only his skin, but also his face and his pupils. I saw he was blind. The voice was still majestic91 and the limbs powerful, even if the body was withered92 by age. He stared at us as if he could see us, and always thereafter I saw him move and speak as if he still possessed the gift of sight. But the tone of his voice was that of one possessing only the gift of prophecy.
“The man whom you see, venerable in age and wisdom,” Malachi said to William, pointing out the newcomer, “is Jorge of Burgos. Older than anyone else living in the monastery93 save Alinardo of Grottaferrata, he is the one to whom many monks here confide94 the burden of their sins in the secret of confession95.” Then, turning to the old man, he said, “The man standing96 before you is Brother William of Baskerville, our guest.”
“I hope my words did not anger you,” the old man said in a curt97 tone. “I heard persons laughing at laugh?able things and I reminded them of one of the princi?ples of our Rule. And as the psalmist says, if the monk must refrain from good speech because of his vow98 of silence, all the more reason why he should avoid bad speech. And as there is bad speech there are also bad images. And they are those that lie about the form of cre?ation and show the world as the opposite of what it should be, has always been, and always will be through?out the centuries until the end of time. But you come from another order, where I am told that merriment, even the most inopportune sort, is viewed with in?dulgence.” He was repeating what the Benedictines said about the eccentricities99 of Saint Francis of Assisi, and perhaps also the bizarre whims100 attributed to those friars and Spirituals of every kind who were the most re?cent and embarrassing offshoots of the Franciscan order. But William gave no sign of understanding the insinuation.
“Marginal images often provoke smiles, but to edify101?ing ends,” he replied. ‘As in sermons, to touch the imagination of devout throngs102 it is necessary to intro?duce exempla, not infrequently jocular, so also the discourse of images must indulge in these trivia. For every virtue20 and for every sin there is an example drawn from bestiaries, and animals exemplify the hu?man world.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man said mockingly, but without smiling, “any image is good for inspiring virtue, provid?ed the masterpiece of creation, turned with his head down, becomes the subject of laughter. And so the word of God is illustrated104 by the ass6 playing a lyre, the owl32 plowing105 with a shield, oxen yoking106 themselves to the plow75, rivers flowing upstream, the sea catching107 flue, the wolf turning hermit108! Go hunting for hares with oxen, have owls109 teach you grammar, have dogs bite fleas110, the one-eyed guard the dumb, and the dumb ask for bread, the ant give birth to a calf111, roast chickens fly, cakes grow on rooftops, parrots hold rhetoric lessons, hens fertilize112 cocks, make the cart go before the oxen, the dog sleep in a bed, and all walk with their heads on the ground! What is the aim of this nonsense? A world that is the reverse and the opposite of that established by God, under the pretext113 of teaching divine precepts114!”
“But as the Areopagite teaches,” William said humbly115, “God can be named only through the most distorted things. And Hugh of St. Victor reminded us that the more the simile116 becomes dissimilar, the more the truth is revealed to us under the guise117 of horrible and indecorous figures, the less the imagination is sated in carnal enjoyment118, and is thus obliged to perceive the mysteries hidden under the turpitude119 of the images. …”
“I know that line of reasoning! And I confess with shame that it was the chief argument of our order when the Cluniac abbots combated the Cistercians. But Saint Bernard was right: little by little the man who depicts120 monsters and portents121 of nature to reveal the things of God per speculum et in aenigmate, comes to enjoy the very nature of the monstrosities he creates and to delight in them, and as a result he no longer sees except through them. You have only to look, you who still have your sight, at the capitals of your cloister122.” And he motioned with his hand beyond the window, toward the church. “Before the eyes of monks intent on meditation123, what is the meaning of those ridiculous grotesques124, those monstrous125 shapes and shapely mon?sters? Those sordid126 apes? Those lions, those centaurs, those half-human creatures, with mouths in their bellies127, with single feet, ears like sails? Those spotted128 tigers, those fighting warriors129, those hunters blowing their horns, and those many bodies with single heads and many heads with single bodies? Quadrupeds with serpents’ tails, and fish with quadrupeds’ faces, and here an animal who seems a horse in front and a ram5 behind, and there a horse with horns, and so on; by now it is more pleasurable for a monk to read marble than manuscript, and to admire the works of man than to meditate130 on the law of God. Shame! For the desire of your eyes and for your smiles!”
The old man stopped, out of breath. And I admired the vivid memory thanks to which, blind perhaps for many years, he could still recall the images whose wickedness he decried131. I was led to suspect they had greatly seduced132 him when he had seen them, since he could yet describe them with such passion. But it has often happened that I have found the most seductive depictions of sin in the pages of those -very men of incorruptible virtue who condemned134 their spell and their effects. A sign that these men are impelled135 by such eagerness to bear witness to the truth that they do not hesitate, out of love of God, to confer on evil all the seductions in which it cloaks itself; thus the writers inform men better of the ways through which the Evil One enchants136 them. And, in fact, Jorge’s words filled me with a great desire to see the tigers and monkeys of the cloister, which I had not yet admired. But Jorge interrupted the flow of my thoughts because he re?sumed speaking, in a much calmer tone.
“Our Lord did not have to employ such foolish things to point out the strait and narrow path to us. Nothing in his parables137 arouses laughter, or fear. Adelmo, on the contrary, whose death you now mourn, took such pleasure in the monsters he painted that he lost sight of the ultimate things which they were to illustrate103. And he followed all, I say all”—his voice became solemn and ominous—“the paths of monstrosity. Which God knows how to punish.”
A heavy silence fell. Venantius of Salvemec dared break it.
“Venerable Jorge,” he said, “your virtue makes you unjust. Two days before Adelmo died, you, were present at a learned debate right here in the scriptorium. Adelmo took care that his art, indulging in bizarre and fantastic images, was directed nevertheless to the glory of God, as an instrument of the knowledge of celestial138 things. Brother William mentioned just now the Areo?pagite, who spoke of learning through distortion. And Adelmo that day quoted another lofty authority, the doctor of Aquino, when he said that divine things should be expounded139 more properly in figures of vile140 bodies than of noble bodies. First because the human spirit is more easily freed from error; it is obvious, in fact, that certain properties cannot be attributed to divine things, and become uncertain if portrayed141 by noble corporeal142 things. In the second place because this humbler depiction133 is more suited to the knowledge that we have of God on this earth: He shows Himself here more in that which is not than in that which is, and therefore the similitudes of those things furthest from God lead us to a more exact notion of Him, for thus we know that He is above what we say and think. And in the third place because in this way the things of God are better hidden from unworthy persons. In other words, that day we were discussing the question of understanding how the truth can be revealed through surprising expressions, both shrewd and enigmatic. And I reminded him that in the work of the great Aristotle I had found very clear words on this score. …”
“I do not remember,” Jorge interrupted sharply, “I am very old. I do not remember. I may have been excessively severe. Now it is late, I must go.”
“It is strange you should not remember,” Venantius insisted; “it was a very learned and fine discussion, in which Benno and Berengar also took part. The question, in fact, was whether metaphors143 and puns and riddles144, which also seem conceived by poets for sheer pleasure, do not lead us to speculate on things in a new and surprising way, and I said that this is also a virtue demanded of the wise man. ... And Malachi was also there. …”
“If the venerable Jorge does not remember, respect his age and the weariness of his mind ... otherwise always so lively,” one of the monks following the discus?sion said. The sentence was uttered in an agitated145 tone—at least at the beginning, because the speaker, once realizing that in urging respect for the old man he was actually calling attention to a weakness, had slowed the pace of his own interjection, ending almost in a whisper of apology. It was Berengar of Arundel who had spoken, the assistant librarian. He was a pale-faced young man, and, observing him, I remembered Ubertino’s description of Adelmo: his eyes seemed those of a lascivious146 woman. Made shy, for everyone was now looking at him, he held the fingers of both hands enlaced like one wishing to suppress an internal tension.
Venantius’s reaction was unusual. He gave Berengar a look that made him lower his eyes. “Very well, Brother,” he said, “if memory is a gift of God, then the ability to forget can also be good, and must be respected. I respect it in the elderly brother to whom I was speaking. But from you I expected a sharper recollection of the things that happened when we were here with a dear friend of yours. …”
I could not say whether Venantius underlined with his tone the word “dear.” The fact is that I sensed an embarrassment147 among those present. Each looked in a different direction, and no one looked at Berengar, who had blushed violently. Malachi promptly148 spoke up, with authority: “Come, Brother William,” he said, “I will show you other interesting books.”
The group dispersed149. I saw Berengar give Venantius a look charged with animosity, and Venantius return the look, silent and defiant150. Seeing that old Jorge was leaving, I was moved by a feeling of respectful reverence151, and bowed to kiss his hand. The old man received the kiss, put his hand on my head, and asked who I was. When I told him my name, his face brightened.
“You bear a great and very beautiful name,” he said. “Do you know who Adso of Montier-en-Der was?” he asked. I did not know, I confess. So Jorge added, “He was the author of a great and awful book, the Libellus de Antichristo, in which he foresaw things that were to happen; but he was not sufficiently152 heeded153.”
“The book was written before the millennium,” William said, “and those things did not come to pass. …”
“For those who lack eyes to see,” the blind man said. “The ways of the Antichrist are slow and tortuous154. He arrives when we do not expect him: not because the calculation suggested by the apostle was mistaken, but because we have not learned the art.” Then he cried, in a very loud voice, his face turned toward the hall, making the ceiling of the scriptorium re-echo: “He is coming! Do not waste your last days laughing at little monsters with spotted skins and twisted tails! Do not squander155 the last seven days!”
收听单词发音 |
1
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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ram
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| (random access memory)随机存取存储器 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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incarnates
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| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的第三人称单数 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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concur
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| v.同意，意见一致，互助，同时发生 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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18
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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19
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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20
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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21
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
quills
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| n.（刺猬或豪猪的）刺( quill的名词复数 )；羽毛管；翮；纡管 | |
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23
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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24
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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25
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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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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28
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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29
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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30
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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31
mired
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| abbr.microreciprocal degree 迈尔德（色温单位）v.深陷( mire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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33
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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34
rhetoric
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| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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35
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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36
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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37
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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38
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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39
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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40
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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41
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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42
recalcitrant
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| adj.倔强的 | |
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43
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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44
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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45
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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46
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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47
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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48
rebus
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| n.谜,画谜 | |
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49
algebra
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| n.代数学 | |
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50
annotations
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| n.注释( annotation的名词复数 )；附注 | |
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51
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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52
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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53
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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54
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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55
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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56
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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57
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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58
hirsute
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| adj.多毛的 | |
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59
pates
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| n.头顶，（尤指）秃顶，光顶( pate的名词复数 ) | |
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60
sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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61
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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62
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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63
membranous
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| adj.膜的，膜状的 | |
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64
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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65
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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66
chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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67
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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68
centaurs
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| n.（希腊神话中）半人半马怪物( centaur的名词复数 ) | |
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69
archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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70
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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71
dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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72
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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73
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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74
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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75
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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76
begot
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去式 )；产生，引起 | |
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77
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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78
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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79
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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80
minuscule
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| adj.非常小的；极不重要的 | |
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81
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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82
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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83
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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84
baboons
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| n.狒狒( baboon的名词复数 ) | |
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85
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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87
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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88
falcons
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| n.猎鹰( falcon的名词复数 ) | |
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89
lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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90
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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91
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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92
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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93
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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94
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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95
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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96
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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97
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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98
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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99
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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100
WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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101
edify
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| v.陶冶；教化；启发 | |
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102
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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104
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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105
plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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106
yoking
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| 配轭，矿区的分界 | |
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107
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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108
hermit
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| n.隐士，修道者；隐居 | |
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109
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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110
fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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111
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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112
fertilize
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| v.使受精，施肥于，使肥沃 | |
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113
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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114
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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115
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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116
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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117
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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118
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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119
turpitude
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| n.可耻；邪恶 | |
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120
depicts
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| 描绘，描画( depict的第三人称单数 )； 描述 | |
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121
portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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122
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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123
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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124
grotesques
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| n.衣着、打扮、五官等古怪，不协调的样子( grotesque的名词复数 ) | |
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125
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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126
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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127
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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128
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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129
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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130
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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131
decried
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| v.公开反对，谴责( decry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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133
depiction
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| n.描述 | |
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134
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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135
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
enchants
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| 使欣喜，使心醉( enchant的第三人称单数 )； 用魔法迷惑 | |
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137
parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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138
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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139
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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141
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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142
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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143
metaphors
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| 隐喻( metaphor的名词复数 ) | |
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144
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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145
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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146
lascivious
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| adj.淫荡的，好色的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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148
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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150
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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151
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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152
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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153
heeded
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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155
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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