I was no longer escorted to and from school, for I had persuaded my family to discontinue a custom that made me ridiculous in the eyes of my companions. Often, before returning home, I would take a long and roundabout way and pass by the peaceful ramparts from where I had glimpses of other provinces, and a sight of the distant country.
I worked with even less zeal3 than usual that spring, for the beautiful weather that tempted me out of doors turned my head and made study almost impossible.
Assuredly one of the things for which I had the least aptitude4 was French composition; I generally composed a mere5 rough draught6 without a particle of embellishment to redeem7 it. In the class there was a boy who was a very eagle, and he always read his lucubrations aloud. Oh! with what unction he read out his pretty creations! (He is now settled in a manufacturing town, and has become the most prosaic8 of petty bailiffs.) One day the subject given out was: “A Shipwreck9.” To me the words had a lyrical sound! But, nevertheless, I handed in my paper with only the title and my name inscribed10 upon it. No, I could not make up my mind to elaborate the subjects given to us by the “Great Ape”; a sort of instinctive12 good taste kept me from writing trite13 commonplaces, and as for putting down things of my own imagining, the knowledge that they would be read and picked to pieces by the old bogey14 made it impossible for me to compose anything.
I loved, however, even at this time, to write for myself, but I did it with the greatest secrecy15. Not in the desk in my room that was profaned16 by lessons and copy-books, but in the little old-fashioned one that was part of the furniture of my museum, there was hidden away a unique thing that represented my first attempt at a journal. It looked like a sibyl's conjuring17 book, or an Assyrian manuscript; a seeming endless strip of paper was rolled upon a reed; at the head of this there were two varieties of the Egyptian sphinx and a cabalistic star drawn18 in red ink,—and under these mysterious signs I wrote down, upon the full length of the paper and in a cipher19 of my own invention, daily events and reflections. A year later, however, because of the labor11 involved in transcribing20 the cryptographic characters I had chosen I discarded them and used the ordinary letters; but I continued my work with the greatest secrecy, and I kept my manuscript under lock and key as if it were an interdicted21 book. I inscribed there, not so much the events of my almost colorless existence, as my incoherent impressions, the melancholy22 that I felt at twilight23, my regret for past summers, and my dreams of distant countries. . . . I already had a longing to give my fugitive24 emotions a determinative quality, I needed to wrestle25 against my own weaknesses and frailties26 and to banish27, if possible, the dream-like element that I seemed to discover in all the things about me, and for that reason I continued my journal until a few years ago. . . . But at that time the mere idea that a day might come when someone would have a peep at it was insupportable to me; so much so indeed that if I left home and went to the Island or elsewhere for a few days, I always took care to seal up my journal, and with the greatest solemnity I wrote upon the packet: “It is my last wish that this book be burned without being read.”
God knows, I have changed since then. But it would be going too far beyond the limits of this story of my childhood to recount here through what changes in my life's view-point it chances that I now sing aloud of my woes28, and cry out to the passers-by, for the purpose of drawing to myself the sympathy of distant unknown ones; and I call out with the greater anguish29 in proportion as I feel myself approaching nearer and nearer to the final dust. . . . And who knows? perhaps as I grow older I may write of those still more sacred things which at present cannot be forced from me,—and by that means try to prolong beyond the bounds of my individual life, memory of my being, of my sorrows, and joys, and love.
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1 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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2 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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3 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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4 aptitude | |
n.(学习方面的)才能,资质,天资 | |
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5 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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6 draught | |
n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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7 redeem | |
v.买回,赎回,挽回,恢复,履行(诺言等) | |
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8 prosaic | |
adj.单调的,无趣的 | |
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9 shipwreck | |
n.船舶失事,海难 | |
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10 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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11 labor | |
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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12 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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13 trite | |
adj.陈腐的 | |
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14 bogey | |
n.令人谈之变色之物;妖怪,幽灵 | |
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15 secrecy | |
n.秘密,保密,隐蔽 | |
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16 profaned | |
v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 );亵渎,玷污 | |
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17 conjuring | |
n.魔术 | |
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18 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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19 cipher | |
n.零;无影响力的人;密码 | |
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20 transcribing | |
(用不同的录音手段)转录( transcribe的现在分词 ); 改编(乐曲)(以适应他种乐器或声部); 抄写; 用音标标出(声音) | |
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21 interdicted | |
v.禁止(行动)( interdict的过去式和过去分词 );禁用;限制 | |
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22 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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23 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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24 fugitive | |
adj.逃亡的,易逝的;n.逃犯,逃亡者 | |
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25 wrestle | |
vi.摔跤,角力;搏斗;全力对付 | |
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26 frailties | |
n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 );虚弱;(性格或行为上的)弱点;缺点 | |
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27 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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28 woes | |
困境( woe的名词复数 ); 悲伤; 我好苦哇; 某人就要倒霉 | |
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29 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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