NIGHT
In which the ecpyrosis takes place, and because of excess virtue1 the forces of hell prevail.
The old man was silent. He held both hands open on the book, as if caressing2 its pages, flattening3 them the better to read them, or as if he wanted to protect the book from a raptor’s talons4.
“All of this, in any case, has been to no avail,” William said to him. “Now it is over. I have found you, I have found the book, and the others died in vain.”
“Not in vain,” Jorge said. “Perhaps there were too many of them. And if you needed proof that this book is accursed, you have had it. And to ensure they have not died in vain, one more death will not be too many.”
He spoke5, and with his fleshless, diaphanous6 hands he began slowly tearing to strips and shreds7 the limp pages of the manuscript, stuffing them into his mouth, slowly swallowing as if he were consuming the host and he wanted to make it flesh of his flesh.
William looked at him, fascinated, and seemed not to grasp what was happening. Then he recovered himself and leaned forward, shouting, “What are you doing?” Jorge smiled, baring his bloodless gums, as a yellowish slime trickled9 from his pale lips over the sparse10 white hairs on his chin.
“You were awaiting the sound of the seventh trumpet11, were you not? Now listen to what the voice says: Seal what the seven thunders have said and do not write it, take and devour12 it, it will make bitter your belly13 but to your lips it will be sweet as honey. You see? Now I seal that which was not to be said, in the grave I become.”
He laughed, he, Jorge. For the first time I heard him laugh. ... He laughed with his throat, though his lips did not assume the shape of gaiety, and he seemed almost to be weeping. “You did not expect it, William, not this conclusion, did you? This old man, by the grace of God, wins once more, does he not?” And as William tried to take the book away from him, Jorge, who sensed the movement, feeling the vibration14 of the air, drew back, clasping the volume to his chest with his left hand while his right went on tearing the pages and cramming15 them into his mouth.
He was on the other side of the table, and William, who could not reach him, tried abruptly16 to move around the obstacle. But he knocked over his stool, catching17 his habit in it, so that Jorge was able to perceive the disturbance18. The old man laughed again, louder this time, and with unexpected rapidity thrust out his right hand, groping for the lamp. Guided by the heat, he reached the flame and pressed his hand over it, unafraid of pain, and the light went out. The room was plunged19 into darkness, and for the last time we heard the laughter of Jorge, who said, “Find me now! Now I am the one who sees best!” Then he was silent and did not make another sound, moving with those silent footsteps that always made his appearances so unexpected; and we heard only, from time to time, in different parts of the room, the sound of the tearing paper.
“Adso!” William cried. “Stay by the door. Don’t let him go out!”
But he had spoken too late, because I, who for some moments had been yearning20 to fling myself on the old man, had jumped forward when the darkness fell, trying to circle the table on the side opposite the one around which my master had moved. Too late I real?ized I had enabled Jorge to gain the door, because the old man could move in the dark with extraordinary confidence. We heard a sound of tearing paper behind us—somewhat muffled22, because it came from the next room. And at the same time we heard another sound, a harsh, progressive creaking, the groan23 of hinges.
“The mirror!” William cried. “He is shutting us inside!” Led by the sound, we both rushed toward the entrance; I stumbled over a stool and bruised24 my leg but paid no heed25, because in a flash I realized that if Jorge shut us in we would never get out: in the darkness we would never find the way to open the door, not knowing what had to be maneuvered26 on this side, or how.
I believe William moved with the same desperation as I did, because I felt him beside me as both of us, reaching the threshold, pressed ourselves against the back of the mirror, which was closing toward, us. We arrived in time; the door stopped, then gave way and reopened. Obviously Jorge, sensing the conflict was unequal, had left. We came out of the accursed room, but now we had no idea where the old man was heading, and the darkness was still complete.
All of a sudden I remembered: “Master! I have the flint with me!”
“What are you waiting for, then?” William cried. “Find the lamp and light it!” I rushed back in the darkness, into the finis Africae, groping for the lamp. I found it at once, by divine miracle, then dug inside my scapular and pulled out the flint. My hands were trembling, and two or three times I failed before I was able to light it, as William gasped28 at the door, “Hurry, hurry!” Finally I made a light.
“Hurry!” William urged me again. “Otherwise the old man will eat up all of Aristotle!”
“And die!” I cried in anguish29, overtaking him and joining in the search.
“I don’t care whether he dies, damn the monster!” William cried, peering in every direction, moving at random30. “With what he has eaten, his fate is already sealed. But I want the book!”
Then he stopped and added, more calmly, “Wait. If we continue like this, we’ll never find him. Hush31: we’ll remain still for a moment.” We stiffened32, in silence. And in the silence we heard, not far away, the sound of a body bumping into a case, and the racket of some falling books. “That way!” we shouted, together.
We ran in the direction of the noise, but soon real?ized we would have to slow our pace. In fact, outside the finis Africae, the library was filled that evening with gusts33 of air that hissed34 and moaned, in proportion to the strong wind outside. Heightened by our speed, they threatened to put out our light, so painfully recovered. Since we could not move faster, we would have to make Jorge move more slowly. But William had just the opposite idea and shouted, “We’ve caught you, old man; now we have light!” And it was a wise decision, because the revelation probably upset Jorge, who moved faster, compromising his magic sensibility, his gift for seeing in the darkness. Soon we heard another noise, and, following it, when we entered room Y of YSPANIA, we saw him lying on the floor, the book still in his hands, as he attempted to pull himself to his feet among the books that had spilled from the table he had struck and overturned. He was trying to stand, but he went on tearing the pages, determined35 to devour his prey36 as quickly as possible.
By the time we overtook him he was on his feet; sensing our presence, he confronted us, moving back?ward8. His face, in the reddish glow of the lamp, now seemed horrible to us: the features were distorted, a malignant37 sweat streaked38 his brow and cheeks, his eyes, usually a deathly white, were bloodshot, from his mouth came scraps39 of parchment, and he looked like a raven41?ing beast who had stuffed himself and could no longer swallow his food. Disfigured by anxiety, by the menace of the poison now flowing abundantly through his veins42, by his desperate and diabolical43 determination, the venerable figure of the old man now seemed dis?gusting44 and grotesque45. At other moments he might have inspired laughter, but we, too, were reduced to the condition of animals, dogs stalking their quarry46.
We could have taken him calmly, but we fell on him with violence; he writhed47, clasped his hands on his chest to defend the volume; I grasped him with my left hand while with my right I tried to hold the lamp high, but I grazed his face with the flame, he sensed the heat, let out a muffled cry, almost a roar, as bits of paper spilled from his mouth, and his right hand let go of the volume, darted48 toward the lamp, and abruptly tore it from me, flinging it away. ...
The lamp fell right on the pile of books that had been knocked from the table all in a heap, lying open. The oil spilled out, the fire immediately seized a fragile parchment, which blazed up like a bundle of dry twigs49. Everything happened in a few moments, as if for centu?ries those ancient pages had been yearning for arson50 and were rejoicing in the sudden satisfaction of an immemorial thirst for ecpyrosis. William realized what was happening and let go of the old man, who, feeling himself free, stepped back a few paces. William hesitat?ed an instant, most likely too long, uncertain whether to seize Jorge again or to hasten to put out the little pyre. One book, older than the others, burned almost immediately, sending up a tongue of flame.
The fine gusts of the wind, which might have extin?guished a weak flicker51, encouraged the stronger, liveli?er flame, and even carried sparks flying from it.
“Put out that fire! Quickly!” William cried. “Everything will burn up!”
I rushed toward the blaze, then stopped, because I was unsure what to do. William again moved after me, to come to my aid. We held out our hands as our eyes sought something to smother52 the fire. I had a flash of inspiration: I slipped my habit over my head and tried to throw it on the heart of the fire. But the flames by now were too high; they consumed my garment and were nourished by it. Snatching back my scorched53 hands, I turned toward William and saw Jorge, who had approached again, directly behind him. The heat was now so strong that the old man could feel it very easily, so he knew with absolute certainty where the fire was; he flung the Aristotle into it.
In an explosion of ire, William gave the old man a violent push. Jorge slammed into a case, banging his head against one corner. He fell to the ground. ... But William, whom I believe I heard utter a horrible curse, paid no heed to him. He turned to the books. Too late. The Aristotle, or what had remained of it after the old man’s meal, was already burning.
Meanwhile, some sparks had flown toward the walls, and already the volumes of another bookcase were crumpling54 in the fury of the fire. By now, not one but two fires were burning in the room.
William, realizing we would not be able to put them out with our hands, decided55 to use books to save books. He seized a volume that seemed to him more stoutly56 bound than the others, more compact, and he tried to use it as a weapon to stifle57 the hostile element. But, slamming the studded binding58 on the pyre of glowing books, he merely stirred more sparks. Though he tried to scatter59 them with his feet, he achieved the opposite effect: fluttering scraps of parchment, half burned, rose and hovered60 like bats, while the air, allied61 with its airy fellow element, sent them to kindle62 the terrestrial matter of further pages.
As misfortune would have it, this was one of the most untidy rooms of the labyrinth63. Rolled-up manuscripts hung from the shelves; other books, falling apart, let pages slip from their covers, as from gaping64 mouths, tongues of vellum dried up by the years; and the table must have held a great number of writings that Malachi (by then unassisted for some days) had neglected to put back in their places. So the room, after the spill Jorge caused, was invaded by parchments waiting only to be transformed into another element.
In no time the place was a brazier, a burning bush. The bookcases themselves also joined in this sacrifice and were beginning to crackle. I realized the whole labyrinth was nothing but an immense sacrificial pyre, all prepared for the first spark.
“Water. We need water!” William was saying, but then he added, “But where can any water be found in this inferno65?”
“In the kitchen, down in the kitchen!” I cried.
William looked at me, puzzled, his face flushed by that raging glow. “Yes, but by the time we’ve gone down and come back up ... The Devil take it!” he then cried. “This room is lost, in any case, and perhaps the next one as well. Let’s go down at once. I’ll find water, and you rush out to give the alarm. We need a lot of people!”
We found the way toward the stairs: the conflagra?tion lighted the subsequent rooms as well, but more and more faintly, so we crossed the last two almost groping again. Below, the moon dimly illuminated66 the scriptorium, and from there we went down to the refec?tory. William rushed into the kitchen; I to the re?fectory door, fumbling67 to open it from the inside. I succeeded after a fair amount of labor68, for my agitation69 made me clumsy and inept70. I stepped out onto the grass, ran toward the dormitory, then realized I could not wake the monks72 one by one. I had an inspiration: I went into the church, hunting for the access to the bell tower. When I found it, I grabbed all the ropes, ringing the alarm. I pulled hard, and the central bell rope, as it rose, drew me up with it. In the library the backs of my hands had been burned. My palms were still unhurt, but now I burned them, too, letting them slip along the ropes until they bled and I had to let go.
By then, however, I had made enough noise. I rushed outside in time to see the first monks coming from the dormitory, as I heard in the distance the voices of the servants, who were appearing at the doors of their lodgings73. I could not explain myself clearly, because I was unable to formulate74 words, and the first that came to my lips were in my mother tongue. With bleeding hand I pointed75 to the windows of the south wing of the Aedificium, at whose alabaster76 panes77 there was an abnormal glow. I realized, from the intensity78 of the light, that the fire had spread to other rooms while I had come down and rung the bells. All the windows of Africa and the whole fa?ade between it and the east tower now flickered79 with irregular flashes.
“Water! Fetch water!” I shouted.
At first no one understood. The monks were so used to considering the library a sacred and inaccessible80 place that they could not understand it was threatened by the sort of banal81 accident that might have befallen a peasant hut. The first who looked up at the windows blessed themselves, murmuring words of fear, and I realized they were thinking of further apparitions82. I grabbed their clothing and begged them to understand, until someone finally translated my sobs83 into human words.
It was Nicholas of Morimondo, who said, “The li?brary is on fire!”
“It is, indeed,” I whispered, sinking to the ground, exhausted84.
Nicholas displayed great energy, shouted orders to the servants, gave advice to the monks surrounding him, sent some to open the other doors of the Aedificium, others to seek water and vessels86 of every kind. He directed those present toward the wells and the water tanks of the abbey. He ordered the cowherds to use the mules88 and asses89 to transport jars. ... If a man invested with authority had given these orders, he would have been obeyed at once. But the servants were accustomed to taking orders from Remigio, the scribes from Malachi, all of them from the abbot. And, alas90, none of those three was present. The monks looked around for the abbot, to ask instructions and solace91, and did not find him; only I knew that he was dead, or dying, at that moment, shut up in an airless passage that was now turning into an oven, a bull of Phalaris.
Nicholas shoved the cowherds in one direction, but some other monks, with the best of intentions, pushed them in another. Some of the brothers had obviously lost their heads, others were still dazed with sleep. I tried to explain, now that I had recovered the power of speech, but it must be remembered that I was almost naked, having thrown my habit on the flames, and the sight of a boy, as I was then, bleeding, his face smudged by soot92, his body indecently hairless, numbed93 now by the cold, surely did not inspire much confidence.
Finally Nicholas managed to drag a few brothers and some other men into the kitchen, which in the mean?time someone had opened. Another monk71 had the good sense to bring some torches. We found the place in great disorder94, and I realized William must have turned it upside down, seeking water and vessels to carry it.
At that point I saw William himself appear from the door of the refectory, his face singed95, his habit smoking. He was carrying a large pot in his hand, and I felt pity for him, pathetic allegory of helplessness. I realized that even if he had succeeded in carrying a pan of water to the second floor without spilling it, and even if he had done so more than once, he could have achieved very little. I recalled the story of Saint Augustine, when he saw a boy trying to scoop96 up the water of the sea with a spoon: the boy was an angel and did this to make fun of a saint who wanted to understand the mysteries of the divine nature. And, like the angel, William spoke to me, leaning in exhaustion97 against the doorjamb: “It is impossible, we will never do it, not even with all the monks of the abbey. The library is lost.” Unlike the angel, William wept.
I hugged him, as he tore a cloth from a table and tried to cover me. We stopped and, finally defeated, observed what was going on around us.
There was. a confused bustle98, people going up the spiral staircase bare-handed and encountering others, bare-handed, who had been driven upstairs by their curiosity and were now coming down to look for vessels. Others, cleverer, had immediately started hunting for pans and basins, only to realize there was not sufficient water in the kitchen. Suddenly the great room was invaded by mules, bearing huge jars, and the cowherds driving the animals unloaded them and started to carry up the water. But they did not know how to climb to the scriptorium, and it was a while before some of the scribes told them, and when they went up they bumped into others rushing down, terrified. jars broke and the water spread over the ground, though other jars were passed up the stairs by willing hands. I followed the group and found myself in the scriptorium. Thick smoke came from the access to the library; the last men who had tried to go up to the east tower were already coming down, coughing, red-eyed, and they announced it was no longer possible to penetrate99 that hell.
Then I saw Benno. His face distorted, he was coming up from the lower floor with an enormous vessel85. He heard what those coming down were saying and he attacked them: “Hell will swallow you all, cowards!” He turned, as if seeking help, and saw me. “Adso,” he cried, “the library ... the library …” He did not await my answer, but ran to the foot of the stairs and boldly plunged into the smoke. That was the last time I saw him.
I heard a creaking sound from above. Bits of stone mixed with mortar100 were falling from the ceiling of the scriptorium. The keystone of a vault101, carved in the shape of a flower, came loose and almost landed on my head. The floor of the labyrinth was giving way.
I rushed downstairs and out into the open air. Some willing servants had brought ladders, with which they were trying to reach the windows of the upper floors, to take water up that way. But the highest ladders barely extended to the windows of the scriptorium, and those who had climbed up were unable to open them from the outside. They sent word down to have them opened from within, but at this point nobody dared try to go up there.
Meanwhile, I was looking at the windows of the top floor. The whole library by now must have become a single smoking brazier as the fire raced from room to room, spreading rapidly among the thousands of dry pages. All the windows were alight, a black smoke came from the roof: the fire had already spread to the beams. The Aedificium, which had seemed so solid and tetragonous, revealed in these circumstances its weakness, its cracks, the walls corroded102 from within, the crum?bling stones allowing the flames to reach the wooden elements wherever they were.
Suddenly some windows shattered as if pressed by an inner force, the sparks flew out into the open air, dotting with fluttering glints the darkness of the night. The strong wind had become lighter103: a misfortune, because, strong, it might have blown out the sparks, but light, it carried them, stimulating104 them, and with them made scraps of parchment swirl105 in the air, the delicate fragments of an inner torch. At that point an explosion was heard: the floor of the labyrinth had given way at some point and its blazing beams must have plunged to the floor below. Now I saw tongues of flame rise from the scriptorium, which was also tenanted by books and cases, and by loose papers, spread on the desks, ready to provoke the sparks. I heard cries of woe106 from a group of scribes who tore their hair and still thought of climbing up heroically, to recover their beloved parch40?ments. In vain: the kitchen and refectory were now a crossroads of lost souls, rushing in all directions, each hindering the others. People bumped into one another, fell down; those carrying vessels spilled their redemp?tive contents; the mules brought into the kitchen had sensed the presence of fire and, with a clatter107 of hoofs108, dashed toward the exits, knocking down the human beings and even their own terrified grooms109. It was obvious, in any case, that this horde110 of villeins and of devout111, wise, but unskilled men, with no one in command, was blocking even what aid might still have arrived.
The whole abbey was in the grip of disorder; but this was only the beginning of the tragedy. Pouring from the windows and the roof, the triumphant112 cloud of sparks, fostered by the wind, was now descending113 on all sides, touching114 the roof of the church. Everyone knows how the most splendid cathedrals are vulnerable to the sting of fire: the house of God appears beautiful and well defended as the heavenly Jerusalem itself thanks to the stone it proudly displays, but the walls and ceilings are supported by a fragile, if admirable, architecture of wood, and if the church of stone recalls the most venerable forests with its columns rising high, bold as oaks, to the vaults115 of the ceilings, these columns often have cores of oak—and many of the trappings are also of wood: the altars, the choirs116, the painted panels, the benches, the stalls, the candelabra. And so it was with the abbatial church, whose beautiful door had so fasci?nated me on the first day. The church caught fire in no time. The monks and the whole population of the place then understood that the very survival of the abbey was at stake, and all began rushing even more earnestly, and in even greater confusion, to deal with the new danger.
To be sure, the church was more accessible, more easily defended than the library. The library had been doomed117 by its own impenetrability, by the mystery that protected it, by its few entrances. The church, maternally118 open to all in the hour of prayer, was open to all in the hour of succor119. But there was no more water, or at least very little could be found stored, and the wells supplied it with natural parsimony120 and at a slow pace that did not correspond to the urgency of the need. All the monks would have liked to put out the fire of the church, but nobody knew how at this po int. Moreover, the fire was spreading from above, and it was difficult to hoist121 men up to beat on the flames or smother them with dirt or rags. And when the flames arrived from below, it was futile122 by then to throw earth or sand on them, for the ceiling was crashing down on the firefighters, striking more than a few of them.
And so the cries of regret for the many riches burned were now joined by the cries of pain at seared faces, crushed limbs, bodies buried under a sudden collapse123 of the high vaults.
The wind had become furious again, and more furiously helped spread the fire. Immediately after the church, the barns and stables caught fire. The terrified animals broke their halters, kicked down the doors, scattered124 over the grounds, neighing, mooing, bleating125, grunting126 horribly. Sparks caught the manes of many horses, and there were infernal creatures racing127 across the grass, flaming steeds that trampled128 everything in their path, without goal or respite129. I saw old Alinardo wandering around, not understanding what was happen?ing, knocked down by the magnificent Brunellus, haloed by fire; the old man was dragged in the dust, then abandoned there, a poor shapeless object. But I had neither means nor time to succor him, or to bemoan131 his end, because similar scenes were taking place everywhere.
The horses in flames had carried the fire to places where the wind had not yet brought it: now the forges were burning, and the novices’ house. Hordes132 of peo?ple were running from one end of the compound to another, for no purpose or for illusory purposes. I saw Nicholas, his head wounded, his habit in shreds, now defeated, kneeling in the path from the gate, cursing the divine curse. I saw Pacificus of Tivoli, who, abandoning all notion of help, was trying to seize a crazed mule87 as it passed; when he succeeded, he shouted to me to do the same and to flee, to escape that horrid133 replica134 of Armageddon.
I wondered where William was, fearing he had been trapped under some collapsing135 wall. I found him, after a long search, near the cloister136. In his hand he had his traveling sack: when the fire was already spreading to the pilgrims’ hospice, he had gone up to his cell to save at least his most precious belongings137. He had collected my sack, too, and in it I found something to put on. We paused, breathless, to watch what was happening around us.
By now the abbey was doomed. Almost all its buildings, some more, some less, had been reached by the fire. Those still intact would not remain so for long, because everything, from the natural elements to the confused work of the rescuers, was now contributing to the spread of the fire. Only the parts without buildings remained safe, the vegetable patch, the garden outside the cloister. ... Nothing more could be done to save the buildings; abandoning the idea of saving them, we were able to observe everything without danger, standing130 in an open space.
We looked at the church, now burning slowly, for it is characteristic of these great constructions to blaze up quickly in their wooden parts and then to agonize138 for hours, sometimes for days. The conflagration139 of the Aedificium was different. Here inflammable material was much more abundant, and the fire, having spread all through the scriptorium, had invaded the kitchen floor. As for the top floor, where once, and for hun?dreds of years, there had been the labyrinth, it was now virtually destroyed.
“It was the greatest library in Christendom,” William said. “Now,” he added, “the Antichrist is truly at hand, because no learning will hinder him any more. For that matter, we have seen his face tonight.”
“Whose face?” I asked, dazed.
“Jorge, I mean. In that face, deformed140 by hatred141 of philosophy, I saw for the first time the portrait of the Antichrist, who does not come from the tribe of Judas, as his heralds142 have it, or from a far country. The Antichrist can be born from piety143 itself, from excessive love of God or of the truth, as the heretic is born from the saint and the possessed144 from the seer. Fear prophets, Adso, and those prepared to die for the truth, for as a rule they make many others die with them, often be?fore27 them, at times instead of them. Jorge did a diaboli?cal thing because he loved his truth so lewdly145 that he dared anything in order to destroy falsehood. Jorge feared the second book of Aristotle because it perhaps really did teach how to distort the face of every truth, so that we would not become slaves of our ghosts. Perhaps the mission of those who love mankind is to make people laugh at the truth, to make truth laugh, because the only truth lies in learning to free ourselves from insane passion for the truth.”
“But, master,” I ventured, sorrowfully, “you speak like this now because you are wounded in the depths of your spirit. There is one truth, however, that you discovered tonight, the one you reached by interpreting the clues you read over the past few days. Jorge has won, but you have defeated Jorge because you exposed his plot. ...”
“There was no plot,” William said, “and I discovered it by mistake.”
The assertion was self-contradictory, and I couldn’t decide whether William really wanted it to be. “But it was true that the tracks in the snow led to Brunellus,” I said, “it was true that Adelmo committed suicide, it was true that Venantius did not drown in the jar, it was true that the labyrinth was laid out the way you imagined it, it was true that one entered the finis Africae by touch?ing the word ‘quatuor,’ it was true that the mysterious book was by Aristotle. ... I could go on listing all the true things you discovered with the help of your learning …”
“I have never doubted the truth of signs, Adso; they are the only thins man has with which to orient himself in the world. What I did not understand was the relation among signs. I arrived at Jorge through an apocalyptic146 pattern that seemed to underlie147 all the crimes, and yet it was accidental. I arrived at Jorge seeking one criminal for all the crimes and we discovered that each crime was committed by a different person, or by no one. I arrived at Jorge pursuing the plan of a perverse148 and rational mind, and there was no plan, or, rather, Jorge himself was overcome by his own initial design and there began a sequence of causes, and concauses, and of causes contradicting one another, which proceeded on their own, creating relations that did not stem from any plan. Where is all my wisdom, then? I behaved, stubbornly, pursuing a semblance149 of order, when I should have known well that there is no order in the universe.”
“But in imagining an erroneous order you still found something. ...”
“What you say is very fine, Adso, and I thank you. The order that our mind imagines is like a net, or like a ladder, built to attain150 something. But afterward151 you must throw the ladder away, because you discover that, even if it was useful, it was meaningless. Er muoz gel?chesame die leiter abewerfen, s? er an ir ufgestigen. ... Is that how you say it?”
“That is how it is said in my language. Who told you that?”
“A mystic from your land. He wrote it somewhere, I forget where. And it is not necessary for somebody one day to find that manuscript again. The only truths that are useful are instruments to be thrown away.”
“You have no reason to reproach yourself: you did your best.”
“A human best, which is very little. It’s hard to accept the idea that there cannot be an order in the universe because it would offend the free will of God and His omnipotence152. So the freedom of God is our condemna?tion, or at least the condemnation153 of our pride.”
I dared, for the first and last time in my life, to express a theological conclusion: “But how can a neces?sary being exist totally polluted with the possible? What difference is there, then, between God and primigenial chaos154? Isn’t affirming God’s absolute omnipotence and His absolute freedom with regard to His own choices tantamount to demonstrating that God does not exist?”
William looked at me without betraying any feeling in his features, and he said, “How could a learned man go on communicating his learning if he answered yes to your question?”
I did not understand the meaning of his words. “Do you mean,” I asked, “that there would be no possible and communicable learning any more if the very cri?terion of truth were lacking, or do you mean you could no longer communicate what you know because others would not allow you to?”
At that moment a section of the dormitory roof collapsed155 with a huge din21, blowing a cloud of sparks into the sky. Some of the sheep and the goats wander?ing through the grounds went past us, bleating horribly. A group of servants also went by us, shouting, nearly knocking us down.
“There is too much confusion here,” William said. “Non in commotione, non in commotione Dominus.”
收听单词发音 |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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flattening
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| n. 修平 动词flatten的现在分词 | |
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talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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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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diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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8
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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9
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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10
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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11
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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12
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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13
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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14
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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15
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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16
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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17
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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18
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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19
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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20
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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21
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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22
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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23
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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24
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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25
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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26
maneuvered
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| v.移动，用策略( maneuver的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵 | |
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27
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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28
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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29
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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30
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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31
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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32
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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33
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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34
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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35
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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36
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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37
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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38
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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39
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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40
parch
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| v.烤干，焦干 | |
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41
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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42
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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43
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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44
gusting
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| （风）猛刮（gust的现在分词形式） | |
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45
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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46
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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47
writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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49
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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50
arson
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| n.纵火，放火 | |
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51
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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52
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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53
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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54
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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55
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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56
stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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57
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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58
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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59
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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60
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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61
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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62
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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63
labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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64
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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65
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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66
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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67
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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68
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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69
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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70
inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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71
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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72
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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73
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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74
formulate
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| v.用公式表示；规划；设计；系统地阐述 | |
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75
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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76
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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77
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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78
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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79
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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81
banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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82
apparitions
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| n.特异景象( apparition的名词复数 )；幽灵；鬼；（特异景象等的）出现 | |
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83
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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84
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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85
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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86
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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87
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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88
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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89
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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90
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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91
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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92
soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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93
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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94
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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95
singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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96
scoop
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| n.铲子，舀取，独家新闻；v.汲取，舀取，抢先登出 | |
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97
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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98
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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99
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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100
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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101
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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102
corroded
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| 已被腐蚀的 | |
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103
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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104
stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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105
swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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106
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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107
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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108
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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110
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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111
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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112
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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113
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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114
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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115
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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116
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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117
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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118
maternally
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119
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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120
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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121
hoist
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| n.升高，起重机，推动；v.升起，升高，举起 | |
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122
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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123
collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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124
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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125
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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126
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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127
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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128
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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129
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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130
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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131
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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132
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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133
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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134
replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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135
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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136
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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137
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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138
agonize
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| v.使受苦，使苦闷 | |
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139
conflagration
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| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
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140
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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141
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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142
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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143
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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144
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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145
lewdly
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146
apocalyptic
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| adj.预示灾祸的，启示的 | |
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147
underlie
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| v.位于...之下，成为...的基础 | |
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148
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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149
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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150
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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151
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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152
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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153
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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154
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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155
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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