WITH MURDER ON HIS MIND BUT NOT ON HIS conscience, Corky Laputa, fresh from the vault1 of the nameless dead, crossed the city in the night rain.
As he drove, he thought about his father, perhaps because Henry James Laputa had squandered2 his life as surely as the vagrants3 and teenage runaways4 bunking5 at the morgue had squandered theirs.
Corky’s mother, the economist6, had believed in the righteousness of envy, in the power of hatred7. Her life had been consumed by both, and she had worn bitterness as though it were a crown.
His father believed in the necessity of envy as a motivator. His perpetual envy led inevitably8 to chronic9 hatred whether he believed in the power of hatred or not.
Henry James Laputa had been a professor of American literature. He had also been a novelist with dreams of worthy10 fame.
He chose the most acclaimed12 writers of his time to envy. With fierce diligence, he begrudged13 them every good review, every word of praise, every honor and award. He seethed14 at news of their successes.
Thus motivated, he produced novels in a white-hot passion, works meant to make the fiction of his contemporaries appear shallow and [193] pallid15 and puerile16 by comparison. He wanted to humble17 other writers, humiliate18 them by example, inspire in them an envy greater than any he’d directed against them, for only then could he let go of his own envy and at last enjoy his accomplishments19.
He believed that one day these literati would be so jealous of him that they’d be unable to take any pleasure in their own careers. When they coveted20 his literary reputation with such intensity21 that they were avaricious22 for it, when they burned with shame that their greatest efforts were fading embers compared to the bonfire of his talent, then Henry Laputa would be happy, fulfilled.
Year after year, however, his novels had received only lukewarm praise, and much of this had flowed from the pens of critics who were not of the highest tier. The expected award nominations23 never came. The deserved honors were not conferred. His genius went unrecognized.
Indeed, he detected that many of his literary contemporaries patronized him, which led him to recognize, at long last, that they were all members of a club from which he’d been blackballed. They did recognize the superiority of his talent, but they conspired24 to deny him the laurels25 that he had earned, for they were intent on keeping the pieces of the pie that they had cut for themselves.
Pie. Henry realized that even in the literary community, the god of gods was money. Their dirty little secret. They handed awards back and forth26, blathering about art, but were interested only in using these honors to pump their careers and get rich.
This insight into the conspiratorial27 greed of the literati was fertilizer, water, and sunshine to the garden of Henry’s hatred. The black flowers of antipathy28 flourished as never before.
Frustrated29 by their refusal to accord him the acclaim11 that he desired, Henry set out to earn their envy by writing a novel that would be an enormous commercial success. He believed that he knew all the tricks of plotting and the many uses of treacly sentimentality by [194] which such hacks30 as Dickens manipulated the unwashed masses. He would write an irresistible31 tale, make millions, and let the phony literati be consumed by jealousy32.
This commercial epic33 found a publisher but not an audience. The royalties34 were meager35. Instead of showering him with money, the god of mammon left him standing36 in a manure37 storm, which was exactly what one major critic called his novel.
As more years passed, Henry’s hatred thickened into a malignity38 of pure, persistent39, and singularly venomous quality. He cherished this malignity, and in time it soured and festered into rancor40 as virulent41 and implacable as pancreatic cancer.
At the age of fifty-three, while delivering a caustic42 speech full of fire and outrage43 to an indifferent crowd of academics at the Modern Language Association’s annual convention, Henry James Laputa suffered a massive heart attack. He fell instantly dead with such authority that some audience members thought he’d daringly punctuated44 a point with a pratfall, and they applauded briefly45 before realizing that here was death indeed, not shtick.
Corky had learned so much from his parents. He had learned that envy alone does not constitute a philosophy. He’d learned that a fun lifestyle and cheerful optimism cannot exist in the face of all-consuming, all-embracing hatred without surcease.
He’d also learned not to trust in laws, idealism, or art.
His mother had trusted in the laws of economics, in the ideals of Marxism. She ended as a bitter old woman, without hope or purpose, who seemed almost relieved when her own son had beaten her to death with a fireplace poker46.
Corky’s father had believed that he could use art like a hammer to beat the world into submission47. The world still turned, but Dad had gone to ashes, scattered48 in the sea, dispersed49, as if he’d never existed.
Chaos50.
Chaos was the only dependable force in the universe, and Corky [195] served it with the confidence that it would, in turn, always serve him.
Across the glistening51 city, through the night and unrelenting rain, he drove to West Hollywood, where the undependable Rolf Reynerd needed to die.
Both ends of the block where Reynerd lived were closed off by police barricades52. Officers in black rain slickers with fluorescent54 yellow stripes used chemical-light torches to redirect traffic.
In the basic colors of emergency, bright skeins of rain raveled through the pulsing ambulance beacons55 and knitted urgent patterns on the puddled pavement.
Corky drove past the barricade53. Within two blocks, he found a parking place.
Perhaps the official bustle56 on Rolf Reynerd’s street had no connection with the actor, but Corky’s intuition insisted otherwise.
He wasn’t worried. Whatever mess Rolf Reynerd had gotten himself into, Corky would find a way to use the situation to further his own agenda. Tumble and tumult57 were his friends, and he was confident that in the church of chaos, he was a favored child.
1 vault | |
n.拱形圆顶,地窖,地下室 | |
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2 squandered | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3 vagrants | |
流浪者( vagrant的名词复数 ); 无业游民; 乞丐; 无赖 | |
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4 runaways | |
(轻而易举的)胜利( runaway的名词复数 ) | |
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5 bunking | |
v.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位( bunk的现在分词 );空话,废话 | |
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6 economist | |
n.经济学家,经济专家,节俭的人 | |
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7 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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8 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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9 chronic | |
adj.(疾病)长期未愈的,慢性的;极坏的 | |
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10 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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11 acclaim | |
v.向…欢呼,公认;n.欢呼,喝彩,称赞 | |
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12 acclaimed | |
adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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13 begrudged | |
嫉妒( begrudge的过去式和过去分词 ); 勉强做; 不乐意地付出; 吝惜 | |
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14 seethed | |
(液体)沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 ); 激动,大怒; 强压怒火; 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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15 pallid | |
adj.苍白的,呆板的 | |
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16 puerile | |
adj.幼稚的,儿童的 | |
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17 humble | |
adj.谦卑的,恭顺的;地位低下的;v.降低,贬低 | |
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18 humiliate | |
v.使羞辱,使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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19 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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20 coveted | |
adj.令人垂涎的;垂涎的,梦寐以求的v.贪求,觊觎(covet的过去分词);垂涎;贪图 | |
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21 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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22 avaricious | |
adj.贪婪的,贪心的 | |
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23 nominations | |
n.提名,任命( nomination的名词复数 ) | |
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24 conspired | |
密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 ); 搞阴谋; (事件等)巧合; 共同导致 | |
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25 laurels | |
n.桂冠,荣誉 | |
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26 forth | |
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27 conspiratorial | |
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28 antipathy | |
n.憎恶;反感,引起反感的人或事物 | |
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29 frustrated | |
adj.挫败的,失意的,泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 );挫败;使受挫折;令人沮丧 | |
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30 hacks | |
黑客 | |
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31 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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32 jealousy | |
n.妒忌,嫉妒,猜忌 | |
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33 epic | |
n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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34 royalties | |
特许权使用费 | |
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35 meager | |
adj.缺乏的,不足的,瘦的 | |
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36 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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37 manure | |
n.粪,肥,肥粒;vt.施肥 | |
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38 malignity | |
n.极度的恶意,恶毒;(病的)恶性 | |
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39 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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40 rancor | |
n.深仇,积怨 | |
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41 virulent | |
adj.有毒的,有恶意的,充满敌意的 | |
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42 caustic | |
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43 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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44 punctuated | |
v.(在文字中)加标点符号,加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 );不时打断某事物 | |
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45 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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46 poker | |
n.扑克;vt.烙制 | |
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47 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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48 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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49 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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50 chaos | |
n.混乱,无秩序 | |
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51 glistening | |
adj.闪耀的,反光的v.湿物闪耀,闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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52 barricades | |
路障,障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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53 barricade | |
n.路障,栅栏,障碍;vt.设路障挡住 | |
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54 fluorescent | |
adj.荧光的,发出荧光的 | |
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55 beacons | |
灯塔( beacon的名词复数 ); 烽火; 指路明灯; 无线电台或发射台 | |
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56 bustle | |
v.喧扰地忙乱,匆忙,奔忙;n.忙碌;喧闹 | |
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57 tumult | |
n.喧哗;激动,混乱;吵闹 | |
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